Her nipple brushes against my palm.
Up.
Down.
Her breath cuts off sharply, and I feel her nipple harden. My brain whites out.
“Oh my God,” she hisses. “Are you petting me?”
“I am trying to escape, but your dress is a Venus flytrap!”
“It feels like you’re playing connect the dots!”
“This,” I say through clenched teeth, “is why I hate French cuffs.”
“I can’t believe you even know what those are,” she sighs. “Rotate your wrist.”
“You planning to narrate my every move, or can I just do it?”
“ROTATE. LEFT!”
I rotate left—bad move. My knuckle grazes her hardened nipple, and she makes a sound that should come with a warning label. My dick is lighting off fireworks.
Cool it, champ.
“I cannot believe a grown man who owns cufflinks can’t stop cupping my boob!”
“If you were wearing a bra, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
“You can’t wear a bra with this dress, you Neanderthal!”
“Well, you can’t wear me in your dress either, but here we are, Stopwatch.”
Ivy yanks the neckline forward and peers down into the crime scene with the expression of a woman who has left her body entirely.
She grabs my wrist. “Relax your arm.”
Instead(because I am apparently a cave troll),I squeeze.
Hard.
She yelps. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
“Reflex! You grabbed me!”
“Are you physically incapable of following instructions?!”
“Pretty much.”
She mutters something profane, and her fingers get back to work.
“Oh! Right there,” she breathes, “I can feel it. I’m touching it.”
That sentence should not be said while my fingers are—
MMMMMmmmpphh!
She makes a soft, frustrated noise. A low one.It crawls down my spine, swerves left, and punches me square in the erection…oh hell yeah.
