CHAPTER 2: DRIPPING ON DADDY’S FINGERS
MIRA'S POV
Every nerve ending in my body is screaming, tracking the exact position of his hands with a precision I usually reserve for mile splits and heart rate zones.
He's working the very top of my inner thigh now, and with every stroke, his fingers brush closer to the edge of my soaked thong, closer to the heat I can feel radiating from my swollen p***y.
"How's the pressure?" he asks.
"Good," I whisper, keeping my voice soft and sleepy, like I'm barely conscious. "Really good."
His thumbs drag up my thigh, and this time - this time there's no f*****g way it's an accident - the pad of his finger grazes the damp cotton of my thong.
Right over my slit.
Right where I'm absolutely drenched and getting wetter by the second.
The barest whispe
