“Fuck,” Preston breathed over her skin. She managed to say, around her insides clenching and the instinct to gasp, “For a guy who works with books”—a shiver escaped her lungs—“your vocabulary’s awfully limited.” His lips twisted wryly. “Sorry, I left my thesaurus at home.” Then he applied that smirk to her skin and there were no words needed at all, none that might possibly describe the heaven of Preston’s mouth stroking over her breast, slowly, gradually, agonizingly honing in on her nipple.
