There's something positively sinful about being called a good girl. Both words slip out of him smooth as silk and an absolute torpedo to the last remnants of my struggle.
The almost painful ticklish feeling mellows into something warm and pleasant, buzzing against my skin until I'm rubbing my legs against his, restless and aching for something more.
The McDonald's, the lack of refund, the dragons on his pants—yeah, there's no space in my thought process for any of it anymore.
Even my fear of pain's disappeared, drowned beneath excitement. Like blissful amnesia, courtesy of his stubble scraping against my skin and the way his tongue flicks against my hardened nipple.
I shiver.
He chuckles.
The sound goes straight to my toes, pointing straight down as I try to tell myself a single laugh from a man can't possibly feel that good against my breast.
But then he does it again. And I shiver again. And he chuckles again.
Yeah.
