“You’re right,” I try for composure and fail miserably. “It shows… a lot.”
“Yeah.” His mouth moves closer to my neck, his breath warm before his lips open over my throat. He sucks like he’s feasting on me. I cry out, abandoning any pretense of being unaffected. My fingers tangle in his hair; my head tips to the side to give him more.
His hands shift from teasing to palming my breasts, kneading, rolling them in his grasp until I’m crying from need. I want the clothes gone. I want to be laid out, taken. I want so much it hurts.
“I… I want it,” I whisper thickly. His eyes flick open in the mirror.
“You want it?” he says against my skin, as if he can’t bear to stop kissing, can’t bear to lose my taste. “What do you want, Zayka?”
I could have said your c**k, that I want him to pound into m
