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I was still with my back to him.
“Getting in bed together will help rectify that,” he pointed out.
I wished I’d stopped to think before I taunted him about sleeping with Angelo. But the lie got bigger and more important the more time passed.
He spun me around so I faced him and shoved me flush against the counter. I was both amazed and disturbed by how easily he manhandled me.
“Slow,” I repeated, my voice quivering around the word.
“Slow,” he echoed, hoisting me up on the counter.
He stepped between my legs as if he’d done it a thousand times before—and he had.
Just not with me.
My dress rode up, and if he looked down—which he did, of course, he did—he could see my matching yellow panties and the unmistakable stain of lust where the slit was.
He cupped my behind in a punishing grip, slamming our groins together, and my breath hitched at the thing that met my damp panties.
My very damp panties.
I was soaked.
Embarrassed to the bone.
I hoped he wasn’t going to touch me down there because that would only prove to him how much I craved him.
My eyelids lowered, heavy under the weight of my desire for him. He put his lips on mine and kissed me long and hard, plunging into my mouth in a rhythm that made a ball of something warm and brilliant swell in my womb.
He crushed his body against mine and rubbed his swollen cock against my center, and I dragged my fingers over his back like I’d seen women do in the movies, enjoying the power of touching him however I liked.
It felt good, and I didn’t want to think about anything else. Like how we were a lie. Or how the lie felt better than the truth—the reality of my life.
I pushed aside my feelings for my father, and my missing Angelo, and the worry for Mama.
It was just the two of us tucked in a bubble I knew was bound to burst.
Wolfe snaked one hand between us and rubbed my slit through the fabric of my panties. I was so wet, an apology for reacting this way to his body was dancing on the tip of my tongue.
He continued kissing me, chuckling into my mouth every time I squirmed and moaned.
“You’re so responsive,” he muttered in what I thought could be actual awe between kisses that became dirtier, longer, and wetter, rubbing me faster down there.
Was being responsive a good or a bad thing?
As a good girl, that was another thing to worry about.
I found myself opening my legs wider for him, inviting him to do more of this magic.
Some girls touched themselves, but I preferred not to. Not that I thought it wasn’t okay, I just knew that I couldn’t risk losing my virginity accidentally.
It was priceless.
But he was my husband-to-be, and it seemed to please him.
And me.
I knew that the first time was supposed to hurt, but a part of me was happy it was going to be in the experienced arms of Wolfe.
