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Deeper.
Fuck, she tastes good. Like mint and like Kaylee.
Her lips part to make way for my tongue.
Her fingers tug at my hair.
Her nails dig into my back, pressing the cotton of my t-shirt into my skin.
It's like she's begging for more.
Like she's begging to do away with every layer of fabric between us.
My hands move of their own accord.
One slides over her ass.
The other slips under her t-shirt.
She groans as my fingers skim her stomach.
She arches her back to rock her hips against mine. Shudders as she rubs against my hard-on.
There are only a few layers of fabric between my cock and her cunt.
It's too much.
I need her naked.
I need her on her back on that cold concrete bench, looking up at me like I'm the center of her universe.
She pulls back with a sigh. Looks up at me with every ounce of trust in the world. "I..." She leans into my touch. "I looked at your sketchbook."
What?
"Fuck." She jumps back. Covers her mouth with her hand. "I... Oh God." Her eyes go to the ground. "I'm sorry."
She...
What the fuck?
Time gri
nds to a halt.
I can feel every brush of the breeze.
Hear every distant footstep.
See every one of her lip quivers.
It's written all over her face.
She saw the drawings of her.
Where the fuck does she get off?
Could be with you. She's still here. That's why she's hinting at all this shit about being ordered around and tied up. She's into it. She wants it. She likes that you're a sick fuck.
