My fingers still trembled around him, warm and heavy and thudding in time with my own racing heart, and I stared up at him, wide‑eyed and breathless. He leaned his forehead against mine, his chest heaving slow, every now and then letting out a rough shudder like he was still trying to pull himself back together.
"Again," he rumbled, low and thick, his hand closing over mine to guide me once more. "Slow. Don't rush him. He's waited long enough."
Oh gods, he's so bossy even now. And why does every word sound like it's scraping right down my spine? And why am I not even mad about it?
I moved my hand slower this time, learning the weight of him, the way he jumped and hardened more every time my fingers brushed just right. He hissed sharp through his teeth, his hips shifting forward like he couldn't help it, and a dark, shaky laugh broke out of him when I fumbled a little.
"Nervous, little cub?"
