Lily Thompson
His hands traced the marks he’d left like they were art. Then he bent and kissed them, worshipping what he’d just branded.
He untied me slowly, turning me to face him. My knees gave away but he caught me and lifted me into the desk
My wrists were free, but I still felt the ghost of his tie around them.
My skin burned, hot with his handprints, every nerve alive and screaming.
It stung to sit but his eyes drinking me in hungrily distracted me from the pain. He looked at me ruined, trembling, lips parted, skin flushed.
He held my neck, wetting his lips before claiming my lips. He kissed me slowly and softly, a sharp contrast to the way he had s*****d me few seconds back.
His tongue begged for permission into my mouth and gladly granted it, kissing him back
His tongue sl
