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Summary
Every instruction Ashton gave was a battle for self-control. His hands, meant to guide, instead memorized the terrain of Neige's body—the sharp line of his shoulder blade, the delicate curve of his spine. Neige's breathing was a rhythm Ashton’s own body desperately wanted to match, to inhale when he inhaled, to feel the expansion of his own chest in time with that easy grace. The floral scent clinging to him was maddening, a sweetness that coated the back of Ashton's throat and made him swallow hard. When Neige leaned into his touch, it wasn't just trust; it was a weight, a delicious pressure that settled low in Ashton's gut, a gnawing hunger for more contact, more of that yielding warmth, more of everything.
Series
- Part 1 of The Fairest One Held Close