Chapter 7: The Blurred Line
His hand slid from her neck down to the waistband of her yoga pants, his fingers hooking under the fabric and the thin lace of her thong with a deliberate, claiming tug. A ragged moan escaped her as the cool air hit her wet skin, and all the guilty whispers in her mind were drowned out by the pure, aching need for him to touch her there, now.
She arched her back, her hands abandoning the counter to fist in the damp fabric of his henley and pull his body flush against hers. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded into his mouth, the words a hot, desperate whisper that was both a command and a surrender.
Oscar didn’t stop. His mouth sealed over hers again, a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of her own desperate plea and the faint, metallic tang of the water from the pipes. His tongue pushed past her lips, a relentless, claiming stroke that mirrored the pressure of his hand still cupping her through the damp fabric, and she met it with a hungry, answering rhythm, her fingers tightening in his hair. The world dissolved into sensation—the rough texture of his jeans against her inner thighs, the slick heat building under his palm, the dizzying scent of sawdust and his sweat filling her lungs with every gasped breath.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he growled against her mouth, the words vibrating into her, a filthy confirmation that shattered another layer of her reserve. His fingers ceased their circling and pressed down hard, right over the swollen nub of her clit, and she cried out, a sharp, broken sound that echoed off the bare bathroom walls. “I can feel it soaking through, Paula. Your fucking yoga pants are drenched.”
She couldn’t form words, could only grind herself against his hand, her hips moving with a shameless, instinctual cadence that belonged to a stranger. Her mind flashed to Dave—not his fantasy, but his actual face, the way he looked at her over coffee just this morning, utterly unaware of the black lace secret she wore. The guilt was a cold knife twist in her gut, but it was blunted now, muffled by the roaring need in her blood. Oscar’s other hand came up to squeeze her breast, his thumb rasping over her nipple, and the dual assault made her vision blur.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice low and rough against her ear. His teeth grazed the lobe, a sharp bite that made her jump. “Tell me what you want. Right now.”
“I want…” she panted, the admission caught in her throat, choked by a lifetime of being good. She pushed past it. “I want you to touch me. For real. Please.”
“Yeah?” He pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes searching her face, seeing the conflict and the hunger warring there. “You sure? ‘Cause once I start, I’m not stopping. Not until you’re screaming.”
The bluntness of his words, the raw promise in them, sent a fresh flood of heat between her legs. She nodded, a frantic, jerky motion. “Yes.