Skylar
Don’t do this. Don’t do this.
"You don’t want to do this," he growls.
Which, of course, makes me want to prove to him I can. I squeeze down on his throat—the tendons of which are so tense, they feel like taut guitar strings. Then I begin to stroke my p***y up and down the column in his pants, and again. His hold on my hips tightens. The pain slithers down to meet the friction in my core, the combination of which turns my entire center into a forest fire of sensation.
"Oh, my god." I throw my head back and close my eyes, focusing on that part where I’m abrading my p***y into the thick pillar between his legs.
He releases his hold on my hip, only to circle my nape with his thick fingers. And when he drags his stubbled chin over the sensitive skin of my throat, goosebumps pepper m
