"Patience," he murmured, his voice a dark, knowing rumble that made her pussy clench. He was answering her thoughts again. "You'll get what you need when I decide you need it."
His hands began to move, a slow, possessive exploration. He traced the elegant lines of her collarbones, his touch leaving trails of fire in its wake.
He swept down her stomach, his palms flat against her, and she shuddered at the raw, possessive intimacy of the gesture. He was mapping his territory. He was claiming her, inch by inch.
His hands found her hips, gripping them, pulling her back harder against his rigid cock.
"Ahhh..." The sound was a soft, helpless groan. Then, one hand slid down her thigh, tracing the inseam of her tailored skirt.
The friction, even through the thick fabric, was electric.
{TOUCH MY PUSSY. RIP THE SKIRT. GET TO MY WET CUNT. I'M SOAKING WET FOR YOU. I NEED YOUR HANDS ON ME—}
