I press Lachlan’s hand over my clit. I grind my hips. I beg for him to tighten his grip over my throat. And then I come in blinding stars as Lachlan’s name tumbles from my lips, over and over, a chant that doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every moment of pleasure from my body. It washes through me but leaves a hum of need behind. It’s not enough. It won’t be until I feel his skin against mine and the weight of his body and the planes of muscle beneath my palms.
