For someone who’s determined to take it slow, Dean kisses me awfully hard—almost like a man possessed.
“I don’t like sharing,” he growls as he devours me, pressing me deep into the bed. His hands slide feverishly up beneath the fabric of my shirt and onto my bare breasts, and he lets out a moan of pleasure once he touches them. “Especially not you.”
I love when he uses those phrases—especially not you—particularly with you. Like I’m his weakness.
He’s definitely mine.
“Nothing happened,” I whimper at him as he digs his rock-hard erection hard against my very flimsy pajama shorts. “I didn’t—”
But he silences me by lifting a finger to my lips, and then, to my astonishment, pushing the finger into my mouth.
“You’ll speak when I tell you to,” he growls at me.
I could hit him for that.
