She clicks her tongue and stills completely. “I could leave.”
We lock eyes, neither willing to back down. Then slowly, deliberately, she starts to rise from my lap.
“Fine.” I slide my hands up to her waist, surrendering. For now.
Her smile is pure sin as she settles back down. “Good boy.”
My fingers dig into her ribs in warning, but she just laughs and goes back to work on my shirt buttons. Each new inch of exposed skin gets the same treatment—lips, teeth, tongue—while her hips maintain that maddening rhythm.
The air grows thick with want, with need, with the memory of that night in the bathroom. But every time I try to take control, to speed things up or draw her closer, she pulls back. Denies. Teases.
It’s driving me f*****g insane.
Her nails rake down my chest, leaving angry red
