Heavy. Hot.
Soft silk stretched over a vein running up the length.
A hard, pulsing ache in my palm.
Six and a half inches.
Over my hard limit.
Deep breath.
This isn’t sex.
He’s not mine.
He’s not a problem,only a moment.
A night I’ll forget—another New York minute.
Neon, noise, gone by morning.
(Lies. All lies.)
The second my fingers close around him,
Andrew stops breathing.
Everything tenses.
His jaw.
His abs.
His shoulders.
His hand at the back of my neck.
His pulse frantic, racing under my touch.
His hips jolt forward into my hand.
His mouth parts, breaking away from me.
His forehead slips off mine,
falling onto my shoulder.
And then?—
A moan.
Broken. Low.
Beyond his control.
I should hate that I like it.
How it leaves him like he wasn’t ready for it.
