Page 127 of Beyond Protection
I did.
"You're beautiful," he said again. "Not because you're famous or have good bone structure. You're beautiful because you burn pancakes and buy your aunt blankets even though you're terrified. You're beautiful because you're scared and show up anyway. Because you're lying here letting me touch you even though everything in you wants to take control."
I was entirely transparent to him.
"That's the beauty I see," he said. "And I want to worship it. Will you let me?"
I couldn't speak. Nodded.
"Words, Mac."
"Yes." It came out raw and honest. "Yes."
His mouth moved lower. Down my chest. Across my stomach. His hands followed in the wake.
When his fingers reached my belt, I instinctively reached for him—to reciprocate, to make this something I could manage.
He caught my wrists. Pinned them gently above my head.
"No," he said. "Let me. This is for you. You don't owe me anything. You're allowed just to receive. Understand?"
"I don't know how."
"I know. That's why I'm teaching you."
He released my wrists and gazed into my eyes. "Keep your hands there. If you move them, I stop. Clear?"
"That's not—"
"Clear?"
"Yes. Clear."
"Good."
He unfastened my belt, his knuckles grazing my lower abdomen. Then the button on my jeans. Then the zipper, teeth parting with a sound that sent electricity up my spine.
Every nerve fired. From anticipation. From wanting something and not knowing whether I was allowed this much pleasure.
Eamon's hands were patient, his fingertips leaving trails of fire on my hipbones. He peeled my jeans down my thighs like he had all the time in the world, like we weren't counting down to a raid, and Vanessa wasn't waiting with restraints and her toxic obsession.
For the moment, none of that existed. Only Eamon's hands and mouth tracing the hollow of my throat, curve of my ribs, and the sensitive skin below my navel.
"Breathe," he said, his breath hot against my inner thigh.
I did my best, chest heaving.
His mouth moved lower, tongue leaving a damp path.
When he wrapped his fingers around my cock, squeezing with perfect pressure, I stopped breathing entirely.
"Easy," he murmured, thumb circling the sensitive head. "I've got you."
I gripped the pillow, knuckles white. Fought the instinct to thrust into his palm.
"That's it," he said. "Feel. Don't think. Don't perform. Be here in the moment with me." His hand moved. Slow. Deliberate.
He was learning what made my stomach muscles clench, what made my breath catch, and what made my hips lift despite attempts to stay still.
