But I can feel him holding back.
And that? That won’t do.
I press closer, softer, deeper.
I roll my hips against him.
He makes a sound, half groan, half surrender.
Oh. Oh, I love that.
And fuck, I want him.
I guide him back to the couch, straddling his lap, feeling him exactly where I want him.
He’s hard. So fucking hard.
His fingers twitch against my thighs, gripping me tighter.
I feel his breath, heavy against my lips.
He looks at me like he’s never wanted anything more.
I smile.
Because he shouldn’t.
His hands slide under my sweater, fingers dragging over bare skin.
I shiver. Fuck. He feels good.
His mouth moves to my jaw, my neck, hot, desperate, wrecked.
I tilt my head, giving him more, feeling his teeth, his tongue, his need.
I grind against him, and his groan is damn near ruined.
My nails dig into his shoulders, and I’m seconds from pulling his shirt off.
I want him now.
I want him inside me, under me, mine.
I slow.
I pull back, watching his dazed, fucked-out expression.
His pupils are blown. His lips are swollen.
He looks ruined.
I brush my fingers over his jaw, leaning in, whispering against his lips. “Stay with me next time.”
His breath shudders. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah.”
I press one last kiss to his lips, slow, deep, lingering.
I already own him.
