Page 52 of Desperate Crimes
Fingers gliding through slick folds, teasing my clit in featherlight strokes that make my legs tremble.
My hands fist the sheets. My head falls back. I moan.
“Please,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His laugh is low. Possessive. Devastating.
“Please what, Princess?”
His voice is low, a growl laced with command, and it vibrates through me, deeper than sound, deeper than reason.
My pride should scream at me to stop.
To shut up. To deny him this.
But it shrinks—folds up like paper under the weight of the need clawing through me.
I swallow hard, lips trembling.
“Touch me,” I breathe, barely able to say it. “Don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t.
His fingers move with maddening precision. One slides inside me—slow, smooth, deliberate.
The stretch is perfect.
Not too much, not too little.
Just enough to make my walls flutter around him, greedy and shocked.
He doesn’t thrust. Not yet.
He holds.
Like he’s giving me a second to feel what it means to be touched by him.
To feel possession.
Not violence.
Not gentleness.
Worship.
“You touch yourself at night, Princess?” he asks, voice rasping against my ear. It’s not cruel.
It’s intimate. Hungry.
I flinch, caught.
My throat closes, but I nod. I can’t lie.
“I-I do,” I whisper.
“You make yourself come with your fingers?”
My body clenches around him, my face burning.
