Then, without breaking contact, he spun me, dropped down on the couch, and pulled me into his lap. My dress rode up my thighs, pooling at my hips. I put all my weight on my knees, refusing to drop fully down into his lap. He pulled away, looking up at me as one of his hands snaked into my hair. “Want you on my lap,” he commanded, his hand at my waist, trying to urge me down. Suddenly, I was nervous. My skin felt clammy, and I didn’t want to be in this dress, on his lap.
