She keeps smiling, her laughter soft and breathless, as a heady dizziness settles in while he kisses her neck. The warmth of his lips against her skin sends tingles down her spine, each brush of his stubble igniting something primal within her.
She loves the way his scruff grazes her, rough and teasing, coaxing sighs from deep in her chest. No, it's more than just satisfaction—it's a craving that pulses hotter with every touch, an urgent need that surges as his kisses trace a path downward.
When his lips find her lace-covered breast, his mouth caressing the black fabric while his hand fumbles with the other, it's maddening-sinful in the best possible way. The sensation is diabolical, a tantalizing blend of pleasure and restraint, leaving her desperate for the feel of him against her.
And then there are the moments when he pulls her closer, kissing her more, his hand roaming on her hips, her jean-covered ass, his breath hot in her ear, biting. It's in those stolen breaths and heated touches that she understands exactly what people mean when they talk about desire. She aches for more-for the rawness of flesh on flesh, for the unmistakable intimacy of bone against bone. And damn, she wants it with him.
YOU ARE READING
Moonshine
CasualeDescription for this is a bit overrated, but there's really no end to this beginning.
