Willow
I'M COMPLETELY OUT OF MY DEPTH HERE, BUT I LIKE WHATEVER IS happening.
"Depends," he says.
"On what?"
"If you even think about anyone else while I'm touching you…" His fingers are digging into my thighs. "I'll fuck the memory right out of you, baby."
I tilt my hips into his touch. My skin feels hot, nerves alight. "You really don't like to share, do you?" Dark hair falls into those gleaming, too-sharp eyes. "Do I strike you as the kind of man who shares what's mine?"
His voice is barely more than a murmur, but the way he's looking at me sends a thrill through my whole body.
As if what's his now includes me.
"No," I whisper. "I don't think you do."
His white t-shirt is pulled tight over the solid planes of his chest, every breath making the fabric strain across his muscles. His chest rises and falls in a practiced rhythm, the kind of controlled breathing that only makes the raw hunger in his eyes more obvious.
