She’s perfect. Curves and softness, miles of golden skin. Her breasts are full and high, her nipples peaked from the cold or arousal—or both. Her waist dips in, her hips flare out, and that tiny triangle of fabric between her thighs is the only thing standing between me and total destruction.
I make a sound—something between a grunt and a groan. Words have completely abandoned me.
“Say something,” she whispers.
“I can’t. You broke my brain.”
She laughs—nervous, pleased—and I pull her back onto my lap.
The contact is electric. So much soft skin, separated only by my dress shirt and that damp little triangle of cotton. She gasps when she settles against me, and I watch her face—the way her eyes flutter closed, the way her lips part.
“Better?” I ask.
“So much better.”
She starts moving again, slow, grinding circles that blur my vision. My hands slide from her hips to the curve of her ass, palming the soft flesh and pulling her tighter against me. She gasps at the contact, and I squeeze—unable to help myself—guiding her rhythm, watching her chase her pleasure.
“Banks,” she breathes.
“Sorry.” I squeeze again, steering her rhythm. “I’ve wanted to touch you like this for weeks.”
“Then don’t stop.”
I don’t.
“You feel amazing,” she breathes. “I knew you’d feel amazing.”
“Win—”
She cups her breasts, her thumbs brushing over her own nipples, and I nearly lose it right there.
“Touch me,” she says. “Please, Banks. Touch me.”
I don’t need to be asked twice.
I kiss her breasts—first one, then the other—sucking and biting gently. She cries out, her hips jerking against me, and I slide my fingers under her thong.
She’s wet. For me. Because of me. The realization almost undoes me.
I circle her with my thumb, and she makes a sound I want to record and play on repeat for the rest of my life.
“Banks—oh—right there—”
I keep touching her, learning what she likes, cataloging every gasp and moan. She’s grinding against my hand now, chasing her release, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“I’m close,” she gasps. “I’m so close—”
I kiss her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “I’ve got you, Win. Let go.”
She shatters.
I watch it happen—the way her whole body tenses, the way her mouth falls open, the way she cries out my name like it’s the only word she knows. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.
When she finally comes down, she’s trembling in my arms, breathing hard. She looks at me—dazed, satisfied, and then suddenly determined.
Before I can process what’s happening, she’s sliding off my lap and onto her knees on the floor.
“Win, you don’t have to—”
