Page 88 of The Equation of Us
I nod, already breathless.
He leads me down the hallway, his hand warm around mine. The blinds in his bedroom are drawn, casting the space in dim, intimate shadows. He stops by the bed, turning to face me.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he says, voice dropping to that register that never fails to make my skin prickle with awareness.
“Me too.”
His hands find the hem of my sweater. “Can I?”
I lift my arms in answer. He pulls the fabric over my head, his eyes darkening at the sight of my bra—simple white cotton, nothing special. But the way he looks at me makes me feel like I’m wearing the finest lingerie.
“Beautiful,” he says.
My hands find his shirt next, tugging it upward. He helps, pulling it off in one fluid motion. I’ve seen him shirtless before, but the sight still makes my breath catch. The defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, the trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans, the small bruises on his ribs from hockey.
He reaches for me again, one hand sliding around to my back, finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. The garment falls away, leaving me half-exposed in the dim light.
“Come here,” he says, voice rough with desire.
I step into his space, gasping as our bare skin makes contact. His arms encircle me, holding me close as his mouth finds mine again. The kiss is deeper now, hungrier, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes heat pool low in my belly.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the bed. “Lie down,” he instructs softly.
I comply, scooting back on the mattress as Dean follows, his larger frame covering mine. He braces himself on his elbows, careful not to crush me with his weight.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, eyes locked on mine.
The question surprises me. Usually, Dean takes charge, telling rather than asking. This feels different. More equal somehow.
“I want you,” I say simply.
He smiles against my skin, clearly pleased with my response. “Take off your jeans.”
I reach for the button of my jeans as Dean stands to remove his own. I watch, mesmerized by the fluid efficiency of his movements.
He stands to remove his boxers, revealing his erection, already fully hard. His fist moves over his steely length, gliding slowly up and down as he watches me push my jeans the rest of the way off.
I’m mesmerized.
His lips quirk. “You like watching me?”
I nod, breathless.
He retrieves a condom from his nightstand, setting it within reach.
My stomach jumps.
When he turns back to me, his eyes darken at the sight of me in only my underwear. “Those too,” he says, nodding toward the simple black cotton, still stroking himself in long, lazy pulls.
I hook my thumbs in the waistband and slide them down my legs, suddenly conscious of being completely exposed to him while he just stands there watching. But the appreciation in his gaze banishes any self-consciousness.
“You’re perfect,” he says, rejoining me on the bed.
His hand starts at my knee, sliding upward along my inner thigh with deliberate slowness. I part my legs instinctively, wanting his touch where I need it most.
His fingers brush between my legs. I gasp at the contact, hips lifting involuntarily toward his hand.
“Just like that,” he murmurs, establishing a rhythm that has me panting within minutes. “So responsive.”
