Damien
She stopped just in front of me, bare and shaking, eyes glazed with confusion and heat. I reached out slowly and ran the back of my knuckles down the center of her stomach. She flinched, not from fear—but anticipation. Her skin was scorching. Her thighs pressed together as if she could hold the ache in.
“You poor thing,” I murmured. “You really don’t know what to do with yourself, do you?”
She shook her head, lips parted, chest heaving.
“Then I’ll show you,” I said.
I slid a hand down her side, slow and possessive, letting my palm rest low on her hip. She didn’t move. Just stared down at me like I was her only lifeline.
“Touch yourself,” I ordered, voice firm. “Now.”
She hesitated. Her cheeks burned. Her hands twitched. Still shy. So I helped her. I reached up, took her wrist
