Her Viper tattoo curls around her hips, sliding lower across her thigh—the head of the serpent poised right above her pierced clit.
The ink is wet, gleaming, taunting.
Christ.
I want to lick every inch of it.
I slide two fingers through the slick heat between her thighs, groaning when I feel how wet she is.
“Say you’ll ask me next time,” I demand, tracing her clit slowly, barely there.
Her hips jerk.
Her breath catches.
Her eyes flutter.
And still—she shakes her head.
A soft, trembling, perfect little no.
Fuck, she is so perfect.
I pull my hand away, and she whimpers, actually fucking whimpers, chasing the contact.
But her attention snaps up when I reach for my belt and shove my pants down, letting my cock spring free.
She stares.
And stares.
Her lips part, her tongue flicking across them unconsciously, hunger written all over her face.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “That’s so hot.”
I wrap my fist around myself, stroking slow, long pulls.
Her gaze is glued to my hand.
Her chest rises and falls too fast.
Her thighs inch apart.
“You like what you see, kardhoúla?”
She nods, dazed. “Yes. Atlas, please.”
“Hands above your head.”
She freezes.
“What?”
“If you touch yourself, I stop.”
Her eyes widen.
Her breathing turns frantic.
