Kendrick growled, low and deep in his throat, a sound that resonated between my thighs.
“I’ll buy you ten more, little one,” he murmured, tossing the ruined nightgown aside like it offended him. His voice was all gravel and fire. “I need my plate bare for dessert.”
His plate.
Me.
My skin burned under the weight of that possessive tone. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The air seemed heavier now, thick with lust and the dark pull between us. He looked down at me with a wicked glint in his eyes, like he was deciding where to start—like I was the most decadent thing he’d ever laid eyes on.
And then he began.
First, a smear of warm, melted chocolate at the side of my neck. His fingers were deft, precise, and his expression was that of a chef preparing a feast he couldn’t wait to devour.
