The heat of her palm through the denim was an electric brand. Ross’s entire world collapsed into that single point of contact, the pressure of her small hand over the aching, rigid line of his cock. Every scar on his knuckles, every rule he’d ever followed, dissolved into the static. His hips jerked, a raw, involuntary thrust up into her grip, and the groan that tore from him was the sound of a dam shattering—deep, guttural, ruined. He was hers. The only witnesses were the cracked leather of his recliner and Thor, the dog’s dark, watchful eyes reflecting the lamplight from across the room.

Lily didn’t move her hand. She held him there, feeling him throb against her palm through the thick fabric, watching the struggle play out on his face. His eyes were closed, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. “Look at me,” she whispered, her voice not a girl’s plea but a woman’s command. His eyes opened, and what she saw there wasn’t anger or regret, but a surrender so complete it stole her breath. He was drowning in her.

Her other hand came up, fingers tracing the scar that cut through his eyebrow. “You want me,” she stated, her thumb brushing his lower lip. He didn’t deny it. He turned his head just enough to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her palm, his breath shuddering. The action was so intimate, so desperately hungry, that a sharp ache bloomed low in her belly. She could feel her own wetness, a slick heat soaking through her thin cotton shorts. Thor shifted on the couch with a soft whine, the sound of his nails on the floorboards loud in the silent room.

Slowly, never breaking that devastating eye contact, Lily slid from her perch on the chair’s arm to kneel between his spread legs on the rug. The position was one of worship. Her hands went to his belt buckle, the cold metal a contrast to the feverish heat radiating from him. His own hands came down, not to stop her, but to grip the worn arms of the recliner, his knuckles bleaching white. The click of the buckle releasing was a gunshot in the quiet. She popped the button of his jeans, dragged the zipper down one slow, grating tooth at a time. The sound of it seemed to pulse in time with the frantic beat of her heart.

The denim fell open. The outline of him was obscene, straining against the soft grey cotton of his boxer briefs, the head of his cock dark and damp, already leaking a spot of moisture that she could see. She leaned forward, her honey-blonde hair brushing his thighs, and inhaled. Sawdust, salt, and him—a musky, primal scent that made her mouth water. She nuzzled the thick length through the cotton, feeling him jump against her cheek. A broken sound escaped him. “Lily… Christ.” His voice was gravel, a prayer and a curse. She looked up, her lips a breath away from where he ached. “Tell me,” she breathed against him.

His control snapped. One large, calloused hand left the arm of the chair and buried itself in her hair, not forcing, but claiming. His thumb stroked her temple, a gesture so tender it made her eyes burn. “You,” he gritted out, his hips lifting slightly off the seat, offering himself. “I want you.” The confession hung between them, the final lock turning. Her world narrowed to the heat, the scent, the desperate truth in his ruined voice. She opened her mouth.