Ayla was never a good girl. That was pretty much a given.
The way she impatiently grounds her hips against mine was so intoxicating that we couldn't make it halfway up the staircase without falling on the ground.
We laughed, but our lips never parted more than an inch before finding their way back to each other.
I was hungry for Ayla.
No, not hungry. Starving.
I don't know how the f**k I managed to live so long without her lips on mine, without having her completely.
The teenager inside me was screaming to be inside her right this fuckin' instant but the man tells me to go slow with her. To take my time and make sure she feels relaxed, comfortable and whatever other dainty term that's not rough because she deserves to be treated right.
But her persistent hand keeps lowering down to
