Patricia
Dior got me pinned against the shower wall with his head slightly tilted to look down at me. There isn't an ounce of fat on his body, and the arm resting on the tiles is heavy with well-developed muscles someone would expect on a pro athlete.
I swallow thickly, nervous under his intense gaze, drinking me in. His full lips quirk up higher, and his playfulness shines through his eyes. Jesus Christ—what am I supposed to do?
My idea had been to shower, but at the moment, I'm having a hard time ignoring Dior and his carved body. My lower belly is somersaulting already, hyperaware of the alpha man dwarfing me. And even though I'm met with the brick wall that is Dior's front, I'm aware of the muscular bubble butt hiding behind him.
"I want you so badly," Dior lowers himself to kiss m
