“No, I’m very much sober.”
“If at any point you would like to withdraw your consent, please tell me.”
“I will. Just do it—oh freckles!”
His thumb swirled over my clit, bringing me into an uncontrolled whine. My thighs quivered. My spine locked tight against his chest, I inhaled his scent of leather and steel and blood and death and kept my legs open, needing him to continue.
He laughed.
A sinister laugh that should have me assessing my options, but I did not care. His fingers slipped under the band of my underwear touching me raw, right down to my entrance.
I almost collapsed against him.
“Holy fuck,” he said. “You’re wet.”
Heat hit my cheeks.
“You’re dripping, Princess.”
His finger stroked again, lapping up my wetness that was all utterly and completely his fault.
“Is this how you touch yourself?” he asked.
I nodded against his chest, the knife piercing under my jugular. “It’s never this good.”
“The only person who can make you feel this isme.”
“Well—”
“It’s me.”
“And the sunglasses.”
“The what?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s me who makes you get wet,” he said deeper. “Me.”
“Okay.”
“Say it.”
“I agreed.”
“No, say my name.”
“Dig Graves.”
“Dig.”
“Dig? Dig what? Oh. Dig. Just the first name?”
“Yes.”
“Dig!”
“Good girl.”
