Page 49 of From West, With Regret

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, his fingers grazing my bare skin, below the torn hem of my shorts. He’s teasing my inner thigh, and I can’t bring myself to look up. I focus on his chest and my breathing, his confession still ringing in my ears.

I can’t think straight with his hands on me.

“Yes,” I say. “No.”

“Which is it, London?” His voice is husky and weighted. Every word is laborious, pained, and ravenous. “Yes… or no?”

I lean back against the shelf and let his hand wander. He slips it under one of the legs of my shorts and flits his fingertips over the front of my lace panties.

The sensation makes me weak in the knees, and I can’t help the moan that passes my lips. I sag, but West catches me by the back of my neck. His fingers clamp around it, digging into my flesh, sending a jolt of excitement down my spine.

The song playing in our ear changes to “One of The Girls” by The Weeknd.

“We shouldn’t,” I tell him, betraying my body. I don’t understand what I’m saying, but it doesn’t feel right. That’s how I should be feeling. At least not here, right now. Not in this cramped space. Not when West is technically my boss.

“You’re right.” He growls. “We shouldn’t.”

“Okay.” My eyes flutter. “Then, stop.”

His hand abruptly stops moving, frozen under the bottom of my shorts.

My eyes snap open. “What are you doing?” I breathe.

“You told me to stop.” His eyes narrow, hardening with every agonizing second that passes without him touching me.

“I’m not sure I want you to stop.” I roll my hips, urging him to press his finger closer. Harder.

He does, taking my signal.

“You said we shouldn’t.” He slips his fingers deeper, his entire hand now pressed between my thighs.

“I know,” I moan, rolling my hips again. “We shouldn’t.”

“Give me one good reason this shouldn’t happen.”

He isn’t moving fast enough. I’m hungry for his touch, and he’s too cautious. Too methodical. There’s a painful need growing between my thighs.

Heath. Heath should be a good reason, but he isn’t. I’veknown West for less than two months, but I know what I feel for him is infinitely more than what I felt for Heath. Where Heath was cold, West feels as if I’m barreling toward the sun with no way to stop.

“I can’t,” I tell him confidently.

“You can’t?” he asks, his brow deepening.

My mind is foggy, and I have to ask him to repeat the question.

“You can’t think of one reason?” he asks again, running his forefinger along my slit, over the mesh fabric. He’s already coated in my wetness.

I’m going to fucking explode already.

I tip my head back and breath heavily as his chest rumbles with a hungry grunt. “No,” I clip. “Absolutely none.”

Tucking his fingers under the bottom of my panties, he slips his fingers along my wet slit.

“Jesus, fuck. Your cunt is already weeping for me.” He buries two fingers inside me, and I’m gasping for air. I reach behind me to the shelves above my head. My fingernails scratch into the metal, and I roll onto the balls of my feet, rocking my hips with West’s touch.

I look at him with hooded eyes as he pumps his fingers into me.

“I have a confession,” he whispers, leaning into my ear.

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