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She arches her back as she unhooks her bra and tosses it aside.
Fuck, this view puts the Malibu hills to shame.
She's splayed out on the bed for me in nothing but a pair of tiny shorts. And she's staring up at me like she needs me more than she's ever needed anything.
"Boxers." Her voice gets heavy. Needy. She brings her feet together. Kicks off one shoe. Then the other. Then the socks.
It's smooth.
But there's no room for comebacks in my head.
There isn't room for anything but I need to hear her groan my name.
It's fucking perfect.
I stare into her eyes as I slide my boxers to my feet.
She lets out a low, deep sigh.
"Take off your shorts." My voice isn't a request. It's a demand. It's a fucking order.
But it doesn't turn her off.
It makes her groan.
Slowly, she brings her hands to her hips and slides her shorts to her thighs.
I lean down to pull them to her feet.
My fingers brush her big toe. Slowly, I trace a line up the inside of her foot, her calf, her inner thigh.
Over her panties then down the other leg.
Her eyelids press together. She turns her head to one side. "Walker."
I drag my fingertips up her calf. The inside of her knee. Her thigh.
I rub her over her panties.
She tugs at the sheets as she groans.
I plant my hands around her hips and move onto the bed.
My lips find her inner thigh. She's soft. And the way she shakes against my lips—
I need more.
I need too fucking much.
But I'm not going to think about what that means.
I'm not going to think, period.
I drag my lips up her inner thigh and over her panties.
She brings her hand to my hair. Presses her legs against my ears.
Her voice gets needy. Desperate. "Please."
