Crossing the touch boundary

The pressure is grounding, possessive in a way that makes the breath catch in her throat. Then she feels his pelvis press against her from behind — the solid, unmistakable heat of his body meeting the exposed flesh of her rear, the fabric of his shorts rough against her skin.

A low shiver runs up her spine. Her knees press deeper into the mattress, her fingers curling into the sheets as she braces herself. His other hand lands on the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair, palm warm against her scalp. He doesn't push. He doesn't pull. He just holds her there, still, like a photographer framing a shot before the shutter drops.

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