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Holy shit.
I’ve never felt as exposed as I do when he’s watching me intently, as if he didn’t get a full view of me only last night. As if his fingers didn’t wreak havoc inside me and leave me spent.
Still torturing my nipple, he reaches a hand up and cups me through my panties, and I shudder, head lolling to the side because I want to watch him watch me.
“Mmm. You’re wet, baby girl.”
“I am?”
“You are. Very,verywet.” He slides his fingers up and down my folds, and even though it’s only through the material, my pussy pulses with need.
“Nate…”
“Yes?”
“I need…I need…”
“What do you need? Tell me.”
“More…just more.”
“But you’re a bad girl. You let boys touch you, grope you, put their hands on these nipples and this pussy, don’t you?”
“I…won’t anymore…”
“You won’t, huh?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want them… I want you.”
He stills at that, both his hands halting their assault for a fraction of a second, and I look at him then.
I wish I hadn’t.
His expression knocks the living breath out of my lungs.
His jaw is clenched tight, but it’s not with displeasure, it’s with an emotion I’ve never seen on his face, or maybe he’s never allowed me to see.
Possession. Raw and deep and so damn dangerous.
But instead of running away from it, I barge straight toward it. I bare my soul and body for it. I want it. His possessiveness.
I want every last drop of it.
“Fuck, Gwyneth. Since when did you learn to say shit like that?”
“Since you.”
“Me?”
“Uh-huh. Because you made me want to be a woman.”
“You wanted to be a woman for me?”
“Yeah.”
