Page 32 of The Equation of Us
I start to lift my hands to his chest, but he catches my wrists gently.
“No,” he says against my lips. “Not yet. Keep your hands at your sides.”
The instruction sends a shiver through me. It shouldn’t be arousing—being toldnotto touch him—but something about the quiet authority in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly.
I let my hands drop, fighting the instinct to reach for him.
“Good,” he murmurs, and the simple approval makes my chest tighten.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my knees weak. One of his hands remains at the back of my neck, the other moving to my hip, holding me steady.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing harder. My lips feel swollen and sensitive.
I can feel my nipples pebble in my sports bra beneath my sweater, feel the way my leggings cling to my folds.
He studies my face for a moment, as if making sure I’m certain. Then he steps back, creating space between us.
“Take off your sweater,” he says.
The directness of it sends a shock of desire through me.
I reach for the hem, suddenly self-conscious. Beneath the sweater, I’m wearing a simple black bralette—nothing special. But the way Dean watches me, eyes tracking the movement as I pull the fabric over my head, makes me feel like I’m revealing something precious.
“Beautiful,” he says, the word simple but sincere.
Before I can respond, he continues, “On your knees.”
My breath catches. It’s such a loaded request—something that should feel degrading but instead sends a thrill of anticipation through me. I sink slowly to my knees on his hardwood floor, looking up at him.
Dean’s eyes darken further at the sight. He reaches down, cups my face in his hand, thumb brushing across my lower lip.
“You’re sure about this?” he asks, one final check.
I nod, then realize he wants me to say it. “Yes.”
He holds my gaze as he unbuttons his jeans, then lowers the zipper. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“Take me out,” he instructs, still touching my face, still stroking my cheek.
Still gazing down at me adoringly.
With slightly trembling hands, I reach for him, easing his jeans down enough to access his boxers. I can see the outline of his erection straining against the black fabric, impressively large. The rumors weren’t exaggerated, it seems. I hook my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and draw them down, freeing him.
My breath catches at the sight. First, because his sizeisimpressive. He’s long and thick, already fully hard, the smooth skin taut over visible veins. And there’s already a drop of moisture beading at the tip.
But then I see it—just below, near the center of his thigh. A tattoo. Simple, understated, Roman numerals inked in black against warm skin. It’s subtle enough to stay hidden unless he’s naked or nearly there, which makes discovering it feel like I’ve uncovered a secret. Something private. Intimate. Mine, now.
I want to ask what it means—what memory he’s chosen to etch permanently into his skin—but not now. Not when he’s standing in front of me like this. Hard. Bare.
My gaze returns to his cock, and holy hell—it’s big and sexy and waiting for me. Desire curls low and tight in my belly.
I’ve done this before, but always in the context of reciprocal pleasure or as quick foreplay. Never as the main event, never with this kind of focused intention.
“Put your hands on my thighs,” Dean says. “Use just your mouth.”
I place my palms on his muscled thighs, feeling the strength in them, my thumb brushing close to the mysterious tattoo. Then I lean forward and take him between my lips.
Dean inhales sharply, his hand coming to rest at the back of my head—not pushing, just resting there. Circling the back of my neck with warm, steady pressure, just so I know who’s really in charge. I take him deeper, adjusting to his size, using my tongue to trace the underside.
