His Wicked Games (His Wicked Games #1) by Ember Casey Page B

by the little the ache grows stronger, more
insistent.”
    He moves his hand from my hip and across my
upper thigh, stopping at the place where my legs meet. He pushes
down softly, just enough to press the fabric of the skirt against
my most sensitive spot.
    “What, then, is the cause of this
frustration?” he breathes. “What's the cure?” His hand slides
further between my legs. I push back against him involuntarily, and
he tightens his grip on me, keeping me hard against him. I can feel
his arousal through his clothes.
    His hand continues to move against me, back
and forth across the fabric between my legs.
    “You can't ignore it now,” he says. “You
can't think of anything else. It's more than an ache, now. It's a
hunger. A need.”
    He stops touching me, but only to tug up the
edge of my skirt and slide his hand beneath it. His fingers dance
over the skin of my inner thigh, tracing the same path my own
fingers followed last night. He touches the fabric of my panties,
and then he shifts them aside, slipping his fingers beneath. I
shiver when his touch meets my bare flesh.
    I need to stop him. I need to pull away. I
need to control this situation. But I can't make myself move. I can
no longer pretend I don't feel an intense attraction for him, and I
can't ignore the sensations coursing through my body, across my
skin. I'm reckless, wild, free—just as I was in the passageway last
night.
    “So wet already,” he whispers in my ear. His
hand moves slowly—too slowly. I squirm against him, trying to shift
against his touch, looking for the friction I so desperately
crave.
    “Not so fast,” he says, pulling his hand
away. “We're doing this at my pace.”
    I still, and he resumes his agonizing
touches, his fingers sliding along my folds. This is exciting him,
too, I can tell. His breath is short and shallow and hot against my
ear, and I can feel his heartbeat galloping away against my back.
He gives me another yank back, drawing me harder against his
arousal.
    “The ache is growing more desperate now. You
don't know how much longer you can stand it. All you can think
about is relieving that tension, finding release.”
    He slips the end of his finger inside of me,
and I whimper.
    “You're so close,” he says, his voice ragged,
his finger moving slowly in and out of me. “But that just makes it
worse. You're hot with need, aching for release, and the more the
frustration builds and builds, the farther away it seems.”
    It's all I can do not to grind against his
hand, but I won't beg for it. Not from him, no matter how much I
want it. My legs tremble beneath me, and if it weren't for his arms
around me, I wouldn't be able to stand. My entire body is on fire,
alive with need and frustration just as he claims.
    “Tell me what you want, Lily,” he whispers.
“Tell me.” He slips a second finger inside of me, and I moan.
    I want to touch him. I want him to feel this
desperation, too. I start to reach around behind me, but he
tightens his hold and closes any last sliver of space between
us.
    “No,” he says gently. “This is about you.
What you want.”
    I want to touch him, to make him melt
beneath my hands. I want to see the wickedness I know I'll find in
his eyes. But I can't find the words to say that out loud. Instead,
I close my hand over his hand between my legs and press against it.
I want him to stop the slow, cruel movements of his fingers and
instead ram them inside of me.
    This is a bad idea , a tiny voice in my
head reminds me. Stop him. Push him away. You're supposed to be
the one in control. You're supposed to get him to…
    But for the life of me I can't seem to think
of anything but the feel of his flesh on mine, the hardness of him
at my back, the ache of pleasure building between my legs. I want
him to touch me. To tug and push and pinch at my flesh. To take me
to the brink and back.
    Fuck all the rest.
    I press harder against his hand. He obeys my
silent order, moving his fingers more