Wren
Goosebumps prickle my skin at the words, and the way they roll off his lips.
My stomach tightens as I plant the flat side of my shoes on his shoulders.
He slips a hand under my dress, touching the bare skin of my ass.
“Oh f**k,” he groans, pinning me with his darkened stare. “You’re not wearing panties.”
My throat thickens. “I c-couldn’t. The material is thin and—”
“Trust me honey, I’m not complaining. Hold your dress up,” he murmurs. “Shiitt.”
Shaky hands bunch up my dress. It’s easier because of the slit. And when I’m exposed, an embarassing blush tinges my cheeks.
I go to close my legs, but he grips my thighs.
“Don’t you dare hide from me, Wren. You’re stunning…pretty—f**k, you need to see yourself from here,” he groans low in his throat.
God, this angle is filthy. Obsce
