Page 51 of Desperate Crimes
Not resisting, exactly. More like waiting.
Like my body knows something monumental is about to happen.
Then I feel it.
His fingertips.
They slide up slowly, deliberately, skimming the insides of my thighs. Not rushed.
Not greedy. More like, worshipful.
Like he’s savoring every inch of skin, every breathless twitch I try to control.
A strangled sound escapes him—half groan, half sigh—when his hands reach the plush, sensitive skin near the top of my thighs.
His fingers flex. His breath catches.
“You’re so fucking soft,” he rasps, voice like gravel over silk. “I’ve dreamed about this. About you.”
And then—oh fuck yes please.
He presses my legs apart.
Firm, unyielding pressure, not rough but final, like a door being opened with a key only he has ever held.
Like he has every right.
And I let him.
Because he does.
To my utter shame, I want him.
I want all of it.
The darkness. The danger. The utter loss of control.
Him. Mostly, I want him.
I feel my arousal drip onto the sheets beneath me, shameless and hot.
He growls softly at the feel—or maybe even the scent—of it, and his fingers trail higher, teasing the crease where thigh meets heat.
“Fuck, Princess,” he breathes. “You’re already soaked for me.”
A flush burns its way across my chest, my face, everywhere.
But I don’t pull away.
I tilt my hips forward instead, offering more.
This is wrong.
This is insane.
But it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed about late at night, between the pages of forbidden books and under the hush of velvet fantasies.
His touch becomes bolder.
