Ryker's fingers slide slowly, deliberate up her inner thigh, slick with her, warm with her. Then one finger presses in, slowly.
Elena gasps—body clenching, tightening, taking. Ryker doesn't move yet. He just holds her-finger buried, thumb stoking the other edge of her c**t, mouth hovering just above her skin—waiting for her to adjust, to feel.
Then he presses his finger in further and curls. Just once. Upward.
Her back arches off the bed—sharp, silent—as pleasure rips through her white-hot and sudden. He begins to move. Slow at first, shallow, then deep, steady, measured. Pushing in, pulling out, curling up, each stroke hitting exactly where she needs it, where she aches.
Her breath stutters. Her nails dig in. Her thighs tremble again.
He adds a second finger.
Not rushing. Not f
