In the Palm of His Hand novel · Chapter 4 of 24

Chapter 4: Bed

I pulled him into my bedroom by his good hand.

It was one in the afternoon, the blinds were half shut, and the room smelled like clean sheets and the vanilla candle I never lit.

"Sit," I said.

He sat on the edge of my bed, and the mattress dipped under all that weight.

I stood between his knees and pulled my sleep shirt over my head.

He didn't say a word.

His hands came up and stopped an inch from my ribs.

He looked at me with such open hunger that I felt it in my knees.

"You can touch," I said.

He laid both palms on my waist.

They spanned it almost completely, his thumbs meeting over my navel, and he pulled me closer and pressed his mouth to my stomach.

His beard scraped the soft skin there.

I gasped and put my fingers in his hair.

"I've been thinking about this all morning," he said. "Your skin. I can't stop."

"Then don't."

I pushed at his shoulders, gently.

"Lie back. Mind your side."

He lay back across my pillows with his feet on the floor, and I knelt over him on the bed and undid his belt.

He lifted his hips so I could get his trousers down.

He was bare under them, and he was big, thick and long and flushed dark.

He lay against his stomach with a drop already shining at the tip.

I stared.

"Penelope."

"Give me a second."

"Take as many as you want."

I wrapped my hand around him.

My fingers didn't meet.

He hissed and his head went back into the pillow, and the tendons in his neck stood out.

I stroked him once, slowly, base to tip, and watched his stomach clench.

"Jesus," he said. "Your hands are so small."

"Is that good?"

"It's killing me."

I did it again, with a twist at the top, and he groaned and caught my wrist in his huge hand.

Not to stop me.

He just held it, hard.

"If you keep that up I'll embarrass myself. I want to be inside you."

"Yes."

"Get on top of me."

I climbed over him, with my knees either side of his hips, and braced my hands on his chest well away from the bandage.

I was soaked.

I could feel myself dripping onto his skin.

He saw it, and his jaw flexed.

"Look at you. Come here. Slowly."

I took him in my hand and rubbed the head of him through my folds, once, twice, and gasped when it nudged my clit.

Then I lowered myself onto him.

He pushed in an inch and I stopped, breathless.

"Too big," I whispered.

"Take your time."

"It's too much."

"It isn't. You can take it. You took my fingers this morning, you can take this. Breathe."

I breathed.

I sank down another inch, then another, shaking.

He stroked my thighs with his thumbs.

"That's it, good girl. Look how well you're doing."

By the time I was seated on him, all the way, I had stopped being able to talk.

He filled me.

I had never been so stretched or so full, and the pressure was bright and strange and a little frightening and impossible to stop wanting.

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