I grin. “Like a malfunctioning GPS?”
She narrows her eyes. “AresponsibleGPS.”
“Sweetheart.” My voice drops. “Responsible women don’t moan my name like a prayer and try to break my hip with their thighs.”
Sheblushes.
Like deep, impossible-to-hide pink.
And it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
She tries to pull the sheet higher. “We’re not… we arenotdoing this.”
“Oh we are,” I promise. “We’re absolutely doing this.”
I slide my hand lower. Over her hip. Then between her thighs.
She holds her breath.
Already warm.
Already responsive.
Already mine.
“Bryce…” she warns.
But it’s not a real warning.
Not when she's already spreading her thighs a little wider.
Not when her breath changes the second I brush her clit.
Not when her hips lift off the mattress like sheneedsme.
I tilt my head, watching her face.
“Tell me to stop.”
Silence.
Her throat works around the swallow she can’t hide.
I rub slow, lazy circles, just enough pressure to make her squirm, not enough to let her fall.
She grips the pillow tighter.
“Bryce… ”
“You like morning attention,” I murmur against her ear. “Didn’t peg you for the type.”
She bites her lip.
Wrong move.
I slide two fingers inside her, slow at first, then deeper, curling exactly where she can’t hide how much she wants this.
Her back arches.
