Page 55 of The Butcher's Wife
Dom notices the movement and stops.
“Eduardo’s here,” he grits out.
“Okay, so?” I have no idea which Eduardo he’s talking about—we have at least three in the family.
Dom takes one more step until he’s at the edge of the mattress. “So, he could hear you.”
Oh.
My cheeks burn.
“I didn’t know that,” I say in a weak voice.
He exhales, glancing over me again. “I have to go meet with your dad and a few other people today. I just wanted tostay long enough to introduce you to Eduardo. He’s going to stay in the penthouse as your bodyguard.” He pauses. “You gonna be able to control yourself?”
For a moment, I can’t meet Dom’s eye as my face burns with embarrassment. Of course, I don’t want Eduardo to hear me.
But this ismyhouse too. And I’m sick of being stuck again around a bunch of men and a husband who won’t satisfy me. My core aches with the discomfort of my ruined orgasm.
“What if I can’t?” I whisper. I look directly into Dom’s eye, and when the corners of his mouth twitch, certainty spreads through my chest. “Make him wait outside until I’m done.”
Dom takes a step forward and hooks one boot on the edge of the bed frame, amusement spreading across his face. “That’s a security risk. He can’t wait outside if he’s supposed to be protecting you.”
“A security risk?” I burst into laughter, despite the flush of heat at his proximity. “If it’s such a security risk, then you should be taking care of me, shouldn’t you?”
“What do you need then?” he asks so suddenly that it takes me a moment to process what he said. He nods toward my hips. “To come. What do you need?”
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.
I don’t waste a second.
“Finger me.” I scramble to kick the pillow out from underneath me with all the grace of a newborn deer. “I need you to finger me.”
I spread my legs, exposing myself to him, trying my hardest to look sexy and unaffected and not awkward and thrilled.
Please. Please, please, pleeease.
He stares down between my legs, his body shifting forward, like he’s being drawn in. The tendons in his forearms stand out deliciously as his hands clench into tight fists. I watch, fascinated, as his cock grows heavy in his jeans.
“And your”—he swallows—“your panties?”
Rip them off with your teeth and incinerate them in a campfire.
“Take them off,” I whisper. I clench the bedspread into tight fists to keep from trembling like an overeager chihuahua.
I think he might back out at the last moment, but he shifts forward, and like a dance, I shift back. My elbows press into the mattress as he creeps his hands up my thighs.
I always imagined he’d be hard and rough in bed, like he is with everything else, but he moves against my skin like I’m made of spun glass.
Every brush of his fingertips against my thighs sends sparks up my body and coats me in goose bumps while my pussy throbs so angrily, I think I might combust from lust.
His gaze is fixed firmly between my thighs until his fingers gently hook on the waistband of my underwear, and I gasp. He freezes, glancing at me with wide eyes like he’s done something wrong.
“Please,” I say. “Please, keep going.”
He inhales sharply, and this time, as he pulls my panties down my legs, he watches my face carefully. When he finally glances down, he rumbles a low, strained laugh like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His hands rise to my mid-thigh and squeeze me lightly. “What do you need from me?”
A giddy excitement swells inside me. “Shove your finger in me and rub my clit with your thumb.”
