I like it.
I like her mouthy.
I like her trembling.
I like that she’s still got enough fire to argue with me while my mouth is on her breast and my hand is sliding down her stomach.
I switch to the other nipple, giving it the same attention until she’s squirming under me, hips lifting, thighs pressing tighter against my sides. Her body doesn’t know how to hide. Every little sound, every arch, every jerk of her hips tells me exactly what she likes.
And I am paying damn close attention.
My hand slides lower.
She goes still for one beat.
I lift my head.
Her cheeks are red, but her eyes don’t run from mine.
“Keep looking at me,” I say.
She swallows. “Bossy.”
“Always.”
My fingers slip between her thighs.
Wet.
Hot.
Ready enough to make my jaw clench.
“Fuck, Talia.”
Her breath catches. “What?”
“You’re soaked for me.”
The blush gets deeper. “Do you have to say it like that?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s true.” I drag my fingers through her slick heat, slow, letting her feel how wet she is. “And because I want you to know there’s nothing shy about the way your body wants me.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
That’s new.
I like that too.
I stroke her again, and this time her hips chase my hand.
“There you go,” I say. “That’s my girl.”
Her eyes flare.
