*Mathilda*
I try to focus on the play, but I'm incredibly aware of Rexton sitting behind me. Why the devil didn't he take the chair behind Gina? Or better yet, beside me. Then I could observe him rather than being the one observed. And I'm fairly certain I am being observed. My nerve endings tingle as though he's scraping the edge of his perfectly aligned white teeth along them.
How is it that a man so fair can create such dark images? I can so clearly envision myself with him at the back of the box, lost in the shadows, his mouth trailing along the column of my throat, skimming lower until he dips his tongue into the narrow valley between my breasts. My n*****s puckered tightly as though he'd closed his mouth around them.
Whatever is wrong with me? I'm supposed to be an observer.
It w
