Sadie is trembling. Her muscles shudder under my palm as I stroke her back, and her thighs twitch as she spreads her legs wider. Steady breaths float up from the sun lounger—she's counting inhales and exhales—and I'd stop, I'd call this whole thing off, panicking that she's stressed, if she weren't so desperately slick and needy. The evidence glints in the starlight.
She wants this.
My perfect little assistant wants me as badly as I want her. Those hips tilt up for me, urging me to take her already, and when my shaft nudges against her entrance, she lets out a strangled moan.
"You're sure?"
Because I'd never hurt her. I'm going to love this woman until the day I die, and there's no rush; we don't need to do this tonight. I could dress Sadie again, take her inside, bundle her into a hot
