craving it.
I’m losing my goddamn mind.
And he smiles against my skin,
savoring this, making me suffer.
And every second keeps fuckingdripping.
I grind my teeth,
roll my head from side to side on his shoulder, tormented.
I don’t fucking beg.
But this isn’t begging.
It’s survival.
“Andrew,” I breathe.
It’s the only word I can find.
And I hate how easily it comes out.
Then.
Finally.
A slow, devastating stroke.
A warm, slender middle finger
slipping between my slit,
sliding up, gathering wetness.
A wrecking drag, so unhurried,
so painfully perfect.
I choke on the sound that escapes me.
His breath shatters against my skin,
shredding across my cheek.
Then his jaw clenches, his muscles tense.
The veins in his forearm pop from holding back.
He’s barely grazing me now.
His hand’s shaking.
His lips brush my ear.
“You—fuck, Sonny?—”
