He hisses. His hips jerk into my touch.
“I have dreamed of this,” he confesses. He nips at my lip. “Every night for years. Dreamed of your hands on me.”
“Tex...”
“Say my name again.”
“Tex.”
He kisses me hard. He pulls his hand out of my pants and brings his fingers to his mouth. He sucks them clean.
“You taste like heaven,” he says.
He slides down my body, settling between my legs.
“Can I taste you?” he asks. “Please? Can I?”
The question is polite, but his tone is ragged and needy.
I nod. “Yes. Please.”
He smiles. It’s a wicked grin.
He grabs the waistband of my jeans and tugs them down. They catch on my boots.
“Leave them,” I say. I don’t want to wait.
He nods, then freezes.
I look down.
My red panties.
They’re barely there, a scrap of lace.
But that isn’t what has his attention.
He stares at my thighs.
The slick has soaked through the fabric. It glistens on my skin.
“Baby,” he says.
“What?” I gasp. I look down and feel the heat in my cheeks. “I... I didn’t know it was that much.”
He runs a knuckle over the wet fabric. He presses down.
I cry out. The sensation is electric. Direct.
“I love this,” he says. “I love that your jeans are trapped by your boots. That you can’t get away.”
He presses harder. He rubs circles through the lace.
My thighs shake. I clutch at the grass and rip daisies from the ground.
He lifts my legs, hooking my knees over his shoulders.
“Hold them,” he commands.
