I let my nails scratch against the fine fabric of his shirt. He makes a sound—low, rough, somewhere between approval and restraint. But he doesn’t stop me. He just moves faster. Hungrier. His hands pull my waist closer until I’m pressed against him, and I stand on my tiptoes as I grip his shirt, needing more. Then his hand is around my throat again. Not too tight. Not too soft. Just enough to make me dizzy, to make my pulse stutter. A slow, indulgent squeeze, like he’s testing something. Like he’s finally touching me exactly how he’s always wanted to.
