I want to feel him stretch me open.I want the groan he makes when he pushes in.I want the praise.I want his hands holding my hips like I might disappear.His voice in my ear sayingmine.
My thighs clench.
I think I whimper.
And that’s when Monty shifts behind me, just enough to murmur—low, gravel-rough, still wrecked from sleep.
“You awake, baby?”
“Uh-huh,” is all I can manage.
I feel his smile against the curve of my shoulder before I hear his voice again, slower this time.Teasing.Dangerous in that soft, quiet way that coils heat low in my belly.
“I’ve got an extra hour this morning,” he says, his palm sliding over the front of my thigh.“What do you want to do before I start the day?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer.
His mouth finds the side of my neck—warm and open.Not a kiss.A claim.A drag of lips along skin that makes my breath catch.Then the lightest scrape of teeth that makes my thighs press together, instinctively, shamelessly.
I can’t answer.Not really.
Not when he’s doing that.
His hand moves, slow as sin, up under the shirt I’m wearing.His fingers graze my stomach, and when his palm settles just below my navel, we both pause.
He presses a kiss to the back of my ear.“You’re warm here,” he whispers.“So fucking soft.”
His hand slides lower.
“Monty,” I breathe, more plea than warning.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs.“I’ll give you anything.”
I reach for him.
Slowly.Like it costs me something.
Like I need him to know how much I mean it.
My hand covers his, right where he’s hovering—just above the place I want him most.His fingers twitch beneath mine, but he doesn’t move.Doesn’t rush.
Monty’s never rushed anything in his life.
“I want you,” I whisper, my voice scratchy and small.“Touch me.”
He exhales against my neck—warm and reverent—and lets me guide him lower.His hand fits perfectly beneath mine, and when his fingers slip beneath the waistband of the boxers I’m wearing, my breath stutters.
“Fuck,” he mutters.“You’re already wet.”
“Because of you,” I say, shameless, soft.
His mouth drags down my shoulder, open and slow.“Then I guess I should take some responsibility.”
His fingers slide between my folds, slick and easy, and I don’t even try to hide the sound I make.
“I love how your body talks to me,” he murmurs, stroking me with lazy, sinful precision.“You always give me what I need before I even ask.”
“I want more,” I whisper.My voice breaks at the edges.“I want your mouth and your fingers.”
