th hands to undo his
shirt. My eyes don’t lea一ve his as I pull his shirt open,
revealing his chest.
He swallows, and his lips part as his breathing
increases, and I sense his rising panic, but he doesn’t pull
away. Is he still in sub mode? I ha一ve no idea.
Should I do this? I don’t want to hurt him, physically or
mentally. The sight of him like this, offering himself to me,
has been a wake-up call.
has been a wake-up call.
I reach up, and my hand hovers over his chest, and I
stare at him . . . asking his permission. Very sub一tly he tilts
his head to one side, steeling himself in anticipation of my
touch, and the tension radiates from him, but this time it’s
not in anger—it’s in fear.
I hesitate. Can I really do this to him?
“Yes,” he breathes—again with the weird ability to
answer my unspoken questions.
I extend my fingertips into his chest hair and lightly
brush them down his sternum. He closes his eyes, and his
face creases as if he’s experiencing intolerable pain. It’s
unbearable to witness, so I lift my fingers immediately, but
he quickly grabs my hand and replaces it firmly, flat on his
bare chest so that the hair tickles my palm.
“No,” he says, his voice strained. “I need to.”
His eyes are screwed up so tightly. This must be
agony. It’s truly tormenting to watch. Carefully I let my
fingers stroke across his chest to his heart, marveling at the
feel of him, terrified that this is a step too far.
He opens his eyes, and they are gray fire, blazing at
me.
Holy cow. His look is blistering, feral, beyond intense,
and his breathing is rapid. It stirs my blood. I squirm under
his gaze.
He hasn’t stopped me, so I run my fingertips across his
chest again, and his mouth goes slack. He’s panting, and I
don’t know if it’s from fear, or something else.
I’ve wanted to kiss him there for so long that I lean up
on my knees and hold his gaze for a moment, making my
intention perfectly clear. Then I bend and gently plant a
soft kiss above his heart, feeling his warm, sweet-smell
本章未完，点击下一页继续阅读。