Page 34 of The Equation of Us
“Come here,” he says, leading me to the couch.
He sits, then pulls me down onto his lap, positioning me so I’m straddling him, my knees on either side of his hips. His hands settle on my waist, steadying me. His cock is still hard, pressed between us, but he ignores it.
“What do you need?” he asks, his voice softer now but still commanding.
“I don’t know,” I admit. The truth is, I’m so turned on I can barely think straight. Every nerve ending feels alive, hyperaware of his touch, his proximity.
“I think you do,” he counters. One of his hands slides up my side, brushing the edge of my breast through my camisole. “Tell me.”
My breath hitches. “Touch me,” I whisper.
“Where?” His hand hovers, waiting for direction.
“Everywhere. Please.”
A small smile touches his lips. “So polite.” His hand moves to cup my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple through the fabric. “Is this what you want?”
“Yes,” I breathe, arching into his touch.
“And this?” His other hand slides up my thigh, stopping just short of where I need him most.
“Yes. More.”
He studies my face for a moment, then says, “Stand up.”
Confused but trusting, I slide off his lap and stand in front of him.
“Take off your leggings,” he instructs.
I push them down my legs, stepping out of the tangle of fabric when it pools at my feet. I’m left in my bralette and plain black cotton underwear—again, nothing I would have chosen for seduction, but Dean looks at me like I’m the most exquisite thing he’s ever seen.
“Turn around,” he says.
I do, feeling exposed and vulnerable with my back to him.
“Come here. Back up.”
I step backward until I feel his hands on my hips, guiding me. He pulls me down onto his lap again, but this time with my back to his chest, my legs outside of his.
“Lean back against me,” he murmurs, his mouth close to my ear.
I do, letting my head rest on his shoulder. From this position, I can’t see his face, can’t anticipate his movements. I can only feel.
His hands slide up my sides, then down again, a slow exploration that makes me shiver. One hand moves to my breast, cupping it through my fabric, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens almost painfully.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice low in my ear.
“Yes,” I manage, my voice breathier than usual.
“What about this?” His other hand slides between my legs, pressing against me through my underwear. I’m so sensitive that even this indirect touch makes me gasp.
“I can feel how wet you are,” he says, the words sending another rush of heat through me. “All from using your mouth on me.”
I should be embarrassed by how aroused I am, but there’s no judgment in his tone—only appreciation, wonder even.
His fingers move in slow circles over the fabric, building pressure in a way that has me squirming against him.
“Stay still,” he commands, his other hand moving from my breast to my hip, holding me in place.
