I wanted to scream. Cry. Beg. Threaten, maim, stab.

Especially when he did it again.

And again.

“Say it,” he ordered.

I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say. If he wanted me to tell him to stop, he’d be waiting a long time.

I went out on a limb and whimpered the only word I could think of. “Please.”

“Please who?” he prompted.

“Please, Ward.”

“Fuck, yes.”

It was unnecessary, but Ward brought his finger to his mouth, getting it wet before spitting on his palm. It should’ve been gross. It should’ve been an instant mood killer.

It was neither.

The image was enough to send a fresh rush of wetness to my core. Wetness he found when he pushed my sleep shorts aside and felt how soaked I already was for him.

I expected more teasing. More torment.

But at the contact, he bit out a curse and became single-minded. Like it was him finding pleasure. Like it was his desperate moans cutting through the peaceful silence. The pad of his middle finger stroked my clit with tight circles, making my legs tremble and my hips undulate.

The arousal he’d been stoking grew dangerously close to imploding.

But Ward wasn’t done.

Sliding his thick finger down, he filled me hard and fast. Stroking something unbelievable inside me, he used the heel of his palm to grind against my clit. It was too much. Too powerful. Too intense.

I tried to shift away, but he used our position to keep me pinned to his body. I tried to fight it, but he was demanding. I tried to close my legs, but that only trapped his hand where it was.

Where he wanted it to be.

My breathing became labored, each inhale sharp and each exhale shaky. The thoughts in my head raced until they became a blur of nonsense. Tension tightened in my lower belly, jolts of euphoria skimming every atom of my being.

And then I shattered.

Completely.

No longer running from it, I rocked my hips and chased the bliss that washed over me. A million years—or a few seconds—later, it faded, leaving pleasant aftershocks zipping through my nerves.

But Ward didn’t stop. It wasn’t enough. He kept going, building those aftershocks into something more. Fueling them higher. Faster. My second orgasm hit out of nowhere, but it was no less powerful. And he wrung every drop from me. Demanding it all.

Everything.

When even his tender, languid caress was too much, Ward slid free and gripped my jaw with a hand that smelled like fire and me. He turned my head, arching my neck to give him free access to my mouth.

Access he took and took and took until I was breathless, my lungs burning. He tore his mouth away, and I gulped in air.

And tensed.

What the hell did I do?

More importantly, when can I do it again?

15. Whatever You Say