“Yeah.”
I float one hand back to her panties. I stroke the crease of her lips lazily, then press my fingertip against the cotton at her entrance, teasing her.
She gasps softly and rocks against my finger, trying to press it deeper. She wants more, just like me. Except—
I’m a heathen and everything she’s doing rips words from my mouth that shouldn’t pass my lips. Not with her.
“Goddamn. Look at you moving like you crave my cock. You’re such a needy thing,” I rasp and drag my teeth down her neck.
She exhales, and my filthy words must have hit deep, because her body trembles.
It’s intoxicating.
And those timid breaths, her luscious body, it’s driving me insane — to the point of delirium if I don’t get my shaft inside her now.
I slide down my shorts and fist the base of my dick while my other hand rips her panties to the side. The second my crown reaches that dripping entrance, I let out a husky exhale.
She doesn’t lower herself, so I lift up. My tip pushes but doesn’t advance. There’s resistance, more than normal.
I bite my own lip for a second.
No, she isn’t...
“Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.” I lean back and look into her emerald-brown eyes, flicking my gaze down a few times. “Are you?”
The quiver of her bottom lip says it all.
I swallow hard.
I should stop. But she’s the holy grail. Not just a virgin — the princess of a church I’d love to burn down. And here she is, ripe for the picking, her wetness soaking the tip of my cock and rolling down the shaft.
Hell yeah.
I charge ahead. My palm claims the small of her back, pulling her to me until there’s no space left to pretend this isn’t raw need. My mouth drags close to her ear, my voice rough, unsteady in a way I hate. Like a man already on his knees, already ruined, the first of many she’ll never realize she could command.
“Morgan,” I murmur, the desire thick in my voice. “Let me fuck you.”
Her breath ghosts across my jaw. She trembles, not pulling away, not yielding either. Her nails bite into my shoulders like she needs the anchor. Like she trusts me with the weight of her world.
“I’m nervous,”she whispers, lips brushing my skin. “Will you tell anyone?”
What a fucked-up question.
And I hate her for asking it. Not because she doubts me.
Because she has no idea how rare she is.
Women like her don’t wander into my life. They don’t linger. They don’t look at men like me as worth the extra effort.
They run.
I don’t want her forever. I quit pretending that sorta thing is in my future. But Christ, I feel the absence of women like her every single day.
Not just to fuck.
But I’ll take what I can get. This moment. This closeness. This fragile body in my arms.
The idea that I’d cheapen it — reduce her to drunken bragging — makes my stomach turn.
