His fingers drift lower, over my collarbone, and my vagina clenches.
Touch my breasts. Touch my breasts. Touch my breasts.
“Tell me to stop,” he says against my lips.
“Nuh-uh.”
The light’s dim, but I swear he smiles.
Davis.
Mr. Straight Face.
Smiling while he’s kissing me.
While he’s?—
Oh my god.
I arch into his hand as he scrapes his fingers down my breast.
His breath catches and his hand stills, barely touching my pebbled nipple.
Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.
I squeeze my eyes shut and push my breast harder into his hand, arching my back as far as it will go, but he stays completely still.
Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop.
“Please—touch me. I miss—touching.”
God, I do.
I miss kissing. Touching. Sex.
Physical intimacy.
He studies me briefly, and then he’s in motion. Smooth, controlled, easy motion.
Sliding down my body.
Pushing my shirt up.
Lowering his mouth to my chest.
His beard tickling my breast.
His tongue swirling around the tight bud of my nipple.
I gasp as he sucks, the sensation rocketing a jolt of pleasure straight to my clit. My hips reflexively pump against his leg, and he sucks harder on my nipple.
“Oh god, yes,” I whimper.
Shouldn’t be doing this.
We shouldn’t.
But how can something that feels so right be wrong?
