Page 134 of Beyond the Stroke

“You don’t want me to touch you?” The familiar sting of rejection has me withdrawing. “I thought?—"

Rory reaches for me, shaking his head. “That’s not the issue. I want your hands all over me,” he blows out a breath, “but I need a minute.”

“Oh? Why?” I ask, still confused. I’d felt his erection on my thigh earlier. He seemed more than ready a few minutes ago.

He chuckles, his laugh filled with self-deprecation while his cheeks turn the faintest shade of pink.

“I already finished.”

“You did?” I glance down at the crotch of his pants, the thick ridge of him still pressed against the zipper.

“Yeah, in my pants.”

I blink once. Twice. That’s not what I was expecting at all.

“Does that happen often?” I ask, curiosity making me blunt.

“No. It’s never happened before.” He laughs again, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve never been this turned on, either. Never been so completely wrecked by giving pleasure.”

He pulls me close, holding me against his chest.

“It was you. You do that to me. Seeing your face when you came, the taste of your orgasm on my tongue. It was too much.”

After holding me in silence while I process what just happened, he releases me to push off the bed, and moves toward the bathroom. A minute later, he returns with a wash cloth.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re right, I don’t have to. I want to.”

The look he’s giving me is pure adoration. I soak it up because I’m too tired to fight it.

The warm cloth against my inner thighs and sensitive flesh makes me shiver with pleasure. When he’s done, he tosses it aside and pulls me up toward the pillows.

“I had fun with you tonight. At the gala, and just now.”

“Same.”

“Thank you for trusting me. For letting me have you like that.”

I don’t know what to say. No one has ever thanked me for letting them give me an orgasm. Because no one ever has.

So, I focus on where my finger is tracing the tattoo on his shoulder blade. It’s the five rings symbolizing the Olympics.

“When did you get this?”

“After my first games.”

“How did you decide where you wanted to put it?” I ask.

“Because my shoulders carried the weight of everything I’ve endured to reach the Olympics. Every grueling set, every missed moment with friends, every sacrifice. But they’re also my source of power. Every stroke starts there.”

I smile, loving to hear the passion in his voice. “I thought you were going to say because it looks cool.”

“That, too.” He laughs, his finger tracing over the sensitive skin inside my wrist where wildflowers are inked. “What about yours?”

“They’re wildflowers.” I state the obvious.

“I know. They’re a symbol of freedom and independence. Someone who refuses to be tamed.”

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