He sighs, exasperated, and whirls me around, then directs my hands flat on the marble. I watch in the mirror as he drops to one knee and starts to pat at my ankle. His hands slide up my calf, past my knee, gripping my thigh tight. And just when I think he’s going to stroke between my legs…
He drops down to the next leg and starts from the bottom again.
This isn’t foreplay. He’s patting me for a freaking wire.
“Do not talk until I tell you you can,” he orders. His hands trail up to my waist now, dipping in past the top of my jeans—just barely—then out again. His fingertips leave hot trails in their wake.
It all seems so ridiculous. But there’s nothing funny in his intense expression.
“I told you not to talk,” he says again, but his voice is softening slightly. I notice the heat from th
