Hot.

The feeling crawls up, between my legs, sliding against my back,

and I can’t help but shift forward, hips pressing back as I wait,

ass tilted up, quivering as I wait. I want to hear that low voice,

a simple command, a rough hand gripping hard enough to mark,

teeth against my throat. There’s always a primal urge, to hold back,

to bite, to rake and take and snarl as he grips back, eyes blazing

with that smirk, that taunt as he teases, edges me until I melt,

until I beg, with his voice low in my ear, making me want

to pull him closer between my thighs until I fall apart.

“Good girl.”