She squeals and smacks my shoulder, laughing so hard she can barely breathe.
I’m grinning like an idiot. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed in bed with someone before.
Not like this.
Not loose. Not happy.
I drag my mouth higher. Slower this time. Less teasing. More intention.
Her laughter fades into little hitching breaths.
My lips skim the underside of her breast.
Her whole body stills.
“Oh.” I glance up. “Not ticklish.”
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip like she’s trying not to make a sound.
That alone nearly kills me.
I brush my mouth there again.
Soft.
Slow.
A graze of lips.
Then the faintest swipe of my tongue.
Her back arches off the mattress, and a quiet gasp spills out. The bed springs creak under us.
Definitely not ticklish. Sensitive. Heat-flushed. Noted.
“You okay?” I murmur against her skin, voice rougher now.
“Don’t— don’t stop.”
I smile against her. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
This time, I kiss her breast properly, warm and open-mouthed, lingering, and my hand slides up to cup her other breast. My thumb rolls slow circles over the tight peak, and I watch her face.
She tries to hold it together.
Fails.
Little sounds slipping out. Breathy. Broken. Nothing like laughter anymore.
“Cash...” Her whisper is a half warning, half plea.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer.
I take her nipple between my lips, my teeth sinking in just enough to make her cry out. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to make herache.
Her fingers tighten in my hair, her hips lifting off the bed.
“Do you like that, baby?”
