Page 114 of For the Plot
My heart thuds. He steps closer. My body responds before my brain can catch up, heat surging, thighs tightening, breath stalling.
“Pick up anything good?” he asks, nodding toward the books in my arms.
I glance down. The cover on top isScandalous Nights with the Duke. Naturally.
Reece raises a brow. “Purely for the plot, I’m sure.”
I clear my throat. “Absolutely.”
“Mm.” He steps in close. Too close. Close enough that I can smell the cedar and smoke of his cologne. Close enough that I feel the heat radiating off his skin.
He reaches out with control, brushing a lock of hair off my shoulder. He lets his finger trail along my collarbone. Gently. Lingering. Like he owns every inch of me. I forget how to breathe.
“You miss the way I touched you,” he murmurs, voice like velvet. “How I owned this body.”
My nipples harden instantly. My core clenches so tight I nearly drop the stack of books. I open my mouth, but no words come out. He leans in, his lips ghosting the shell of my ear.
“Do you still touch yourself the way I taught you?”
A small, involuntary sound escapes me—half gasp, half moan. His hand slides from my collarbone to the strap of my tank top, thumb brushing just beneath it.
“You still get wet when you think about me between your legs?”
I nearly collapse. He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. His are dark. Hungry. But patient.
The bastard.
I hate how badly I want to press my thighs together. How desperately I want him to say fuck the slow burn and drag me into the stockroom and ruin me. Instead, he trails his index finger slowly,torturously,down my bare arm.
From shoulder to elbow. Elbow to wrist. He doesn’t grab me. Doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t even break eye contact. Just that single finger, grazing my skin like he’s painting his name across my body in invisible ink.
“I bet you’re soaked right now,” he whispers.
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood. My body’s humming.
Humming isn’t even the right word. No, I’mbuzzing,vibrating, barely able to stand upright. My panties are drenched. My breath is shallow. My pulse pounds between my legs. And still, he doesn’t touch me anywhere that would break his perfect little game.
He just looks at me. Possessive. Hungry. Like I’m dessert and he’s waiting for permission to indulge.
My hand twitches. I want to grab him. Drag him into the stacks. Rip his clothes off and beg him to fuck me until I can’t remember why I ever left. He leans in again, his lips brushing my cheek this time. But just barely.
“Not yet,” he whispers. “You haven’t chosen me. Not really.”
Then he steps back. And walks away. Like he didn’t just wreck me with a single goddamn fingertip.
I stand there for a solid thirty seconds. Shaking. Breathing hard. My legs trembling like I just came from a spin class. And then I look down at the books still clutched in my arms.
I make it to the Uber. Barely. I don’t remember ordering it. Don’t remember walking out of the store. I float on shaky legs and adrenaline, my skin still tingling from the whisper of his touch.
The moment the car door closes behind me, I crumble. Not visibly. But my thighs clench together so tight I could snap steel between them.
Because I amwrecked. Soaked. Ruined.
The seat belt crosses my chest, but it’s the ghost of his voice I feel.You miss the way I touched you. Do you still touch yourself the way I taught you?
I press my knees together harder, gripping the fabric of my dress with white knuckles. I’ve never in my life wanted to be fucked so badly. And I’veneverwanted to slap someone for leaving me like this.
By the time I get home, I’m so far gone I don’t even take off my shoes. I toss my purse, lock the door, and beeline to the bedroom like my body’s operating on pure instinct. I strip down in seconds, dress pooled on the floor, bra flung at the door, panties soaked through.
