She bites her lower lip, slowly, intentionally.
She knows I’m watching her mouth.
She knows I’m thinking about that “Mistletoe Kisses” lipstick and exactly where I want to see it printed all over my body.
She leans down.
Her hands land on my shoulders.
I feel the heat of her palms through my shirt. Her thumbs rub the base of my neck.
“Tell me, Becker… which way did you like fucking me best?” she whispers.
Her voice is a low, raspy scrape meant only for me.
My breath catches.
“How much do you like being deep inside me?” she goes on, leaning in closer. “Do you remember how I looked at you in the mirror when you were fucking me?”
Jesus Christ.
My hands clamp down on the armrests. I’m fighting every primal instinct I have not to grab her by the hips and pull her down onto me.
She knows. She sees it.
Her hands slide down—slow, torturous.
Over her chest, down her stomach, and then lower, until she’s gripping her own thighs.
She squeezes.
God… I wish it were my hands on her.
Her nails dig into the fabric of her dress.
“I love it when you lose control, Becker,” she murmurs. “I love it when you’re mine.”
135.
She shifts to the side, her lips brushing my ear. Her scent—vanilla and danger—fills my lungs.
A low growl escapes me, unintentional, and it echoes through the speakers.
The room goes dead silent.
All you can hear is the frantic beep-beep-beep of my accelerating heart.
She moves back in front of me.
She holds my gaze. Her pupils are blown wide.
Without breaking eye contact, she lifts one leg, then the other, straddling me—hovering, not sitting.
Her thighs press against the outsides of mine.
Her hips are level with my face.
The red dress rides up, revealing inches of skin that short-circuit my brain.
