Two pieces of cloth separated our skin, and it was too much. I wanted him naked so I could feel every inch of him against me. I wanted him inside me, hard and deep. The muscles of my core clenched with a need so intense that I whimpered. This wasn’t just four years of pent-up sexual need talking—this was all because of Jackson. Just Jackson.

His shirt had ridden to my waist, and he tugged it up and over my breasts before lowering his head to one peak and teasing that nipple until it pebbled, and then the other, all while thrusting against me in a painfully, deliciously slow rhythm that had my nails digging little half-moons into his skin.

He moved like we had all day—like we had an eternity in this bedroom. His touches were unhurried and deliberate as he kissed every exposed inch of my skin. The man drove me insane. Every sensation pounded through my veins before it gathered low in my belly where it built a maddening tension.

“Jackson.” I grabbed his hand and slid it down my stomach, between our bodies, and pressed it against my center.

He rose slightly, just enough to look in my eyes with a question.

“Please,” I reiterated.

Without looking away, he pushed the lace aside and swept his fingers from my opening to my clit.

I gasped but held his gaze.

“Fuck, Morgan. You’re so wet for me.” His jaw clenched and his brow furrowed with the effort of restraint.

If I hadn’t been wet before, the combination of those words and his sandpaper-rough voice would have gotten me there.

He repeated the stroke and swirled his fingers around my clit, bringing every nerve to life without giving me the very thing I needed.

I arched my neck, and my eyes slid shut at the exquisite pleasure his hands gave.

“Stay with me,” he demanded.

My eyes flew open, and I saw it, a tiny flicker of apprehension in his depths. What would make him worry even the slightest bit when his hands were on me? Stay with me.

That ache in my heart sharpened with realization, and I gripped the back of his neck. “I’m right here, Jackson.” I knew exactly who I was with.

He brushed his lips over mine, then plunged two fingers inside me, keeping his eyes locked on mine. The pleasure stole my very breath.

I cried out as he plunged again and rubbed his fingers against the front of my walls before withdrawing only to repeat again and again. Every stroke pitched me higher. The pleasure sharpened, and the tension within me wound tighter.

“More,” I demanded, riding his hand with greedy rocks of my hips.

“You feel so damned good.” He flicked over my clit with his thumb, and I moaned. It was too much and yet not enough. “Wet and slick and so fucking perfect.”