Softer.
Poor bastard. She barely deserved this.
It wouldn't stop her from taking it, though. His fingertips brushed her bare abdomen, and she fought a groan as she groped for his belt buckle. The sooner he was in her, the sooner she could stop thinking about anything but sex and how good he felt, and God , she knew it'd be good, so good she might even get off afterwards--
He closed his fingers on her wrists and held her gaze as he guided her arms back up against the wall. "Keep them there," he said again, whisper-soft, then jerked down her zipper and slipped his hand into her pants.
Warm, blunt fingers slid over her pussy, and the shock of it would have driven her head back if she could have looked away. No one had ever watched her like this before, not this close, not with one hand in her pants, stroking and parting, coaxing throbbing pleasure to life.
"Shh." The gentle, questing pressure of his fingers never wavered, even as he leaned in to nuzzle her cheek. "Let me."
That was when she realized he wasn't going to fuck her.
Whimpering, she closed her eyes and twisted her head, distracted by the heat of his breath on her skin. "What the hell, Donnelly, just get in me."
"Yes, ma'am." He shifted her higher, the muscles in his arm flexing against her stomach. He cupped her pussy, and he exhaled against her cheek as he curled two fingers inside her.
" Bren --" She couldn't get enough air to say more. All her stupid obsession with the strength and grace and size of his hands, and she'd never imagined this, how huge his fingers would feel, sparking a stretching discomfort only to soothe it with gentle friction.
"Don't." He pressed deeper, the heel of his hand rocking against her clit. "Don't try to stop me."
She'd never let another person get her off. Hell, most of the time she faked it for their benefit, taking the quiet comfort of physical closeness and saving the vulnerability of release for when she was alone. Even when she came riding a man's dick, it was her fingers on her clit getting the job done, her choice to get there or not.
Even if she wanted to come for Bren, she didn't know if she could. Her arms trembled with tension as she fisted her hands and fought the urge to reach for him. The warmth between her thighs was still building, still shocking her with peaks that curled her toes and quiet lulls that let her breathe.
It wasn't desperate, not yet, but she could taste the edge coming--and knew frustration would inevitably follow. "I could help," she offered shakily as her hips jerked without her permission, slave to the rhythm of his thrusting fingers.
His teeth closed in a warning nip at the corner of her mouth.
Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut and dropped both hands to his shoulders, clutching at him as if that could ground her, but the hard flex of muscle as he rocked his hand only made it worse. Closing her eyes didn't even help, because she could see him painted across the backs of her eyelids, fierce and determined and doomed to disappointment when she couldn't relax enough to give him what he clearly wanted.
His fingers slowed. "Breathe."
She didn't realize she hadn't been, but a whimper rushed out of her as she trembled through a quick exhalation. "I'm trying."
"Then don't." He was panting now, his breath blowing hot on her cheek. "Just feel it." He twisted his wrist, and his fingers inside her, until his thumb brushed her clit in a slick circle.
A hoarse cry rose in her throat, and she pressed her open mouth to his skin to muffle it. But that only brought the taste of him into her, and she wanted so much more because she'd been so, so wrong. Nothing about Sector Three could dirty him. He'd kick aside the rubble and build something beautiful out of it.
Her hips twitched, writhing beyond her control as he brought her higher. More slowly this time, pumping his fingers with the rhythm of her body and adding those dizzying touches to her clit when her nails dug into his shoulders. The tortured
Poor bastard. She barely deserved this.
It wouldn't stop her from taking it, though. His fingertips brushed her bare abdomen, and she fought a groan as she groped for his belt buckle. The sooner he was in her, the sooner she could stop thinking about anything but sex and how good he felt, and God , she knew it'd be good, so good she might even get off afterwards--
He closed his fingers on her wrists and held her gaze as he guided her arms back up against the wall. "Keep them there," he said again, whisper-soft, then jerked down her zipper and slipped his hand into her pants.
Warm, blunt fingers slid over her pussy, and the shock of it would have driven her head back if she could have looked away. No one had ever watched her like this before, not this close, not with one hand in her pants, stroking and parting, coaxing throbbing pleasure to life.
"Shh." The gentle, questing pressure of his fingers never wavered, even as he leaned in to nuzzle her cheek. "Let me."
That was when she realized he wasn't going to fuck her.
Whimpering, she closed her eyes and twisted her head, distracted by the heat of his breath on her skin. "What the hell, Donnelly, just get in me."
"Yes, ma'am." He shifted her higher, the muscles in his arm flexing against her stomach. He cupped her pussy, and he exhaled against her cheek as he curled two fingers inside her.
" Bren --" She couldn't get enough air to say more. All her stupid obsession with the strength and grace and size of his hands, and she'd never imagined this, how huge his fingers would feel, sparking a stretching discomfort only to soothe it with gentle friction.
"Don't." He pressed deeper, the heel of his hand rocking against her clit. "Don't try to stop me."
She'd never let another person get her off. Hell, most of the time she faked it for their benefit, taking the quiet comfort of physical closeness and saving the vulnerability of release for when she was alone. Even when she came riding a man's dick, it was her fingers on her clit getting the job done, her choice to get there or not.
Even if she wanted to come for Bren, she didn't know if she could. Her arms trembled with tension as she fisted her hands and fought the urge to reach for him. The warmth between her thighs was still building, still shocking her with peaks that curled her toes and quiet lulls that let her breathe.
It wasn't desperate, not yet, but she could taste the edge coming--and knew frustration would inevitably follow. "I could help," she offered shakily as her hips jerked without her permission, slave to the rhythm of his thrusting fingers.
His teeth closed in a warning nip at the corner of her mouth.
Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut and dropped both hands to his shoulders, clutching at him as if that could ground her, but the hard flex of muscle as he rocked his hand only made it worse. Closing her eyes didn't even help, because she could see him painted across the backs of her eyelids, fierce and determined and doomed to disappointment when she couldn't relax enough to give him what he clearly wanted.
His fingers slowed. "Breathe."
She didn't realize she hadn't been, but a whimper rushed out of her as she trembled through a quick exhalation. "I'm trying."
"Then don't." He was panting now, his breath blowing hot on her cheek. "Just feel it." He twisted his wrist, and his fingers inside her, until his thumb brushed her clit in a slick circle.
A hoarse cry rose in her throat, and she pressed her open mouth to his skin to muffle it. But that only brought the taste of him into her, and she wanted so much more because she'd been so, so wrong. Nothing about Sector Three could dirty him. He'd kick aside the rubble and build something beautiful out of it.
Her hips twitched, writhing beyond her control as he brought her higher. More slowly this time, pumping his fingers with the rhythm of her body and adding those dizzying touches to her clit when her nails dug into his shoulders. The tortured
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