“Dig! Dig! Dig!” I was an overachiever.
He sunk the first notch of his finger inside of me while brushing his thumb over my clit.
Flames sparked over my skin. I was burning alive at the stake for Dig Graves.
“More?” he asked.
“More.”
“Manners.”
“Please. Please. Please. Please.”
He sunk his finger in deeper.
I think I hallucinated.
“That’s tight.” His breath was warm against my cheek. “My cock is going to tear it up.”
I knew that it was a threat, but it sounded more like a proposal, and I made room for this on my agenda. “Okay.”
He pulled his finger halfway out and plunged it back in causing my body to quake. I dug my fingernails into the skin of the desk. Each time he thrust his finger, he ran his thumb over my clit.
Again, and again.
The delirium built.
My need grew teeth.
Whines sung from my throat.
I started a choir.
Under my jugular the sting of the cold metal on the knife sparked through my skin.
My hips moved on instinct under the duress of his fingers, thrusting back and forth, back and forth.
“That’s it, fuck my hand.” He breathed poetry down my neck. “Fuck my hand.”
“Alright.”
“Who’s making you feel this?”
“Dig.”
“Who do you want to fuck you?”
“Dig.”
“Who’s going to bereally madif you ever let anyone else touch you?”
“Dig.”
“That’s my girl.”
Just as I was about to erupt, he took his finger out of me and his thumb off my clit and slipped his hand from out of my underwear. The absence of his touch had me on the verge of fainting. “No!”
He chuckled, licking his finger. “Mm. You do taste like strawberries.”
