18
H
e kisses me again, more hungrily this time, sliding his hand underneath me to squeeze my ass, then groans.
“Christ, this peach.”
I decide to be light and flirtatious instead of weepy and morose at the thought of leaving him in a few months…and what will come after. There will be plenty of time for weepy and morose later, when I’m alone. I say coyly, “Don’t bruise the merchandise, please. The peach is muy delicato.”
He nips my lower lip and squeezes my ass harder. “Yes,” he breathes, “it sure f*****g is. And now it’s time to pink it up with my handprints.”
His words thrill me, as do his eyes, which are darkening the way they do when he’s starting to lose himself to desire.
I don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because he stands, lifts me up, and tosses me over his shoulder,
