I parted my legs ever so slightly, telling him with my body that I wanted more. I had to put my drink down when he pressed his fingertips against my c**t. I leaned back in a delicious twist of pleasure and shock, grabbing onto his wrist.
“Softer,” I whispered, and he softened. Then I said, “No, harder, harder.”
He was sipping his beer as he did it, his dark eyes locked on me. There was something f*****g irresistible about that, like I was his plaything, like he was driving me crazy without even giving me his full attention. The feminist in me had several choice words to say about that, but the dirty, horny part of me screamed out in ecstasy. I shifted my hips, finding his touch with firmer and firmer contact.
He fingered me faster, faster, and then it felt as though the whole apartment—
