"Look at you," he whispered, his eyes dark pools of pure desire. "Blonde hair like fucking sunlight against this glass. Eyes that look at me like I'm the answer to a prayer you didn't even know you were still praying."
The hand on her waist slid up. So. Fucking. Slowly. Palm flat against her ribs, his thumb brushing the soft, sensitive underside of her breast through the silk. Not grabbing. Not taking. Worshipping.
"These lips," he breathed, his gaze fixed on her mouth. "Perfect. Pink. The way they part when you breathe. The more I can see your pulse beating here, in your neck."
Patricia's hips rolled against him, a slow, involuntary wave of pure need. Her body was responding to his words, to his touch, to the thick promise of his cock, moving with a sensual rhythm she hadn't known she possessed.
