Yasmin
I bit down on my lower lip as I watched him. My face was flushed with embarrassment. I hated how aroused I was, even though he was not touching me. I tried to blame it on something else, my ovulation, which was days away. I blamed his expert fingers, but he had barely touched me, and I was a water fountain down there.
He looked at me with that darned cheeky smile. I couldn’t see what he was doing; his body shielded the artwork from me, but he looked really proud of it. As if he could read my thoughts, he whispered softly, “You’re going to like it, I promise…”
My chest was heaving, my legs were cramping from the position they were in, but when I relaxed them, he shot a glare at me.
“Stop moving, Yas, you’re going to ruin my art…”
I swallowed.
“Does it hurt?” He asked suddenly.
