“So eager.” “For you,” I say, as quietly as I can. “Is that right?” There’s arrogance in his tone, and I love it. “Let’s find out if that’s true.” His touch is at the hem of my dress, his fingers traveling beneath it. He feathers over the inside of my thigh, inching higher. Higher. Higher. Stopping at the apex. He runs a hand over the fabric. “Oh, Paisley,” he says, his tone playfully chiding. “What have we here?”
