Gods & Monsters (Serpent & Dove #3) by Shelby Mahurin

“No.” The word tore from me instinctively. Quick and thoughtless. Cursing my own eagerness, I exhaled an uneven breath. Slow down, Reid. We have time. She’d given me this opportunity to master myself. To regain some semblance of control. Obviously she’d underestimated her appeal. My thumbs itched to rub along her bare soles, to slip over her toes and up her ankles. I glanced at the door.

She feigned a yawn.

My eyes locked on hers, searching, and in them, I saw the truth. She wanted my thoughts clear, yes, but not just for my sake. For hers as well. Make up your mind, Reid, she’d said before. You can’t string me along forever, blowing hot one minute and cold the next.

Scooting to the edge of the couch, careful not to touch her, I said, “I want—I want you to—” But the words wouldn’t come. Honesty choked me. Honesty and fear. For how far I’d go, how far she’d go, how far we’d gone already.

She cocked her head, her gaze alight with fire. It threatened to devour us both. “Whatever you want, Reid.” Softer, she said, “Tell me.”

My fear melted at the depth in her voice. The pure, unbridled emotion.

Love.

I quickly shook away the thought. “Take off your pants.”

If my request surprised her, she didn’t show it. She didn’t hesitate. Slowly, torturously, she peeled her pants down her legs. Her eyes never left mine. Not until she’d stripped the leather fabric away completely.

My mouth went dry at the sight.

I’d been captivated by her collarbone. Now the whole of her bare legs stretched out before me. Still perched atop the table, the tips of her toes barely reached the floor. Her shirt billowed around her, however. It hid her from me. Resisting the urge to lean forward, I curled my fingers into the cushion and watched, silent, as she leaned back on her hands, swinging her feet as if bored.

She wasn’t bored.

“Now what?” she asked. The hitch in her voice revealed the lie. The breathlessness.

“Your shirt.”

“You’re supposed to tell me where you’d like to touch me.”

“I want to see you first.”

And I did. I wanted—no, needed—to see her like a starving man needed sustenance. Her eyes narrowed, but she gradually lifted the hem of her top, revealing more of that golden skin. Inch by torturous inch. After sliding it overhead, she tossed it in a pool at my feet. “And now?”

And now she was naked. Gloriously so. Though I longed to touch her, to reach out and trace the curve of her waist, I kept my hands fisted in the cushions. She wanted me to dictate each touch. She wanted to hear every word for what it was—a decision. Small decisions, yes, but decisions nonetheless. Honest ones. There could be no lies between us here. Not like this.

Not like this.

“Your thigh,” I said, unable to tear my gaze away from her ankles, her calves, her knees. Unable to think coherently, to speak more than a handful of syllables. Too enthralled to be embarrassed. “Touch it.”

Her belly undulated with laughter at the command. Her shoulders shook with it. I feasted on the sound, on the sight—each intake of breath, each exhalation. Though each bout rang high and clear, delighted, she had no business sounding so innocent. Not when her body burned as sin incarnate.

“I need more than that, Chass. Be specific.” Leaning forward, she swept her hand casually to the middle of her thigh. “Here?” When I shook my head, swallowing hard, she trailed a single finger higher. Higher still. “Or . . . here?”

“What does it feel like?” Unable to help myself, I pitched upright, swift and unsteady. My hands trembled with the need to replace hers, but I resisted. I couldn’t touch her now. I’d never stop. “Imagine it’s my hand, and tell me exactly how your skin feels.”

With a wink, she closed her eyes. “It feels . . . warm.”

“Just warm?”

“Feverish.” Her other hand drifted to her throat, her neck, as she continued to caress her thigh. Her smile faded. “I feel feverish. Hot.”

Feverish. Hot. “Your finger. Move it higher.” When she complied, sliding it between her legs, I nearly tore through the cushions. My heart beat rapidly. “What does it feel like there?”

Her breath left in a whoosh as that finger moved. Her legs trembled. I ached to grab them. To pin her to the table and finish what we’d started. But this—this wasn’t like before. This was different. This was everything. “Tell me, Lou. Tell me how hot you feel.”

“It feels”—her hips rocked in slow rhythm with her finger, and her head fell back, her spine arching—“good. It feels so good, Reid. I feel so good.”

“Be specific,” I said through gritted teeth.

When she told me what it felt like—slick and sensitive, aching and empty—I fell to my knees before her. She’d spoken of worship. I understood now. I still didn’t touch her, however, not even when she added a second finger, a third, and said on a sigh, “I wish it was you.”

I wish it was too. “Part your legs.” Her legs fell open. “Show me how you touch yourself.”

And she did.

Her thumb made delicate circles first. Then indelicate ones. More and more, her movements growing faster, graceless, as her legs tensed and spasmed. I felt each press of her thumb myself—the building pressure, the sharp ache. The need for release. I managed one breath. Two. Then—