His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties—and my breath catches.
“Max—” I start—
“Stay still.”
My fingers tighten into the sheets.
The lace slides down my hips, inch by inch, and his hands follow—palms dragging over my skin, steady, like he’s taking his time on purpose.
Heat floods through me, sharp and immediate, my thighs pressing together instinctively—until his hand stops me.
A firm grip at my hip.
“Don’t hide.”
My stomach flips.
And I go still.
The fabric slips lower, until it's down my legs completely.
“Look at her.”
“She’s trying to stay still,” he murmurs, voice low, measured. “But she’s not doing a very good job.”
Max’s hand presses into my lower back again.
“She doesn’t listen,” Max tsks. “Thinks she can make her own decisions.”
“And then this is where she
