I trail a finger between the valley of her breasts and trace a path down and down—over her navel and along the edge of her panties, drawing a slow circle just over her slit where the fabric is already damp. “Did you think of me when you picked these out?” She makes an indignant sound. “No.” “Liar.” I feel myself grinning; even here, underneath me, she’s still Dani. I love that. “I bet you did. I bet you wondered what I would think of them when I saw them.” “Maybe I never intended for you to see them,” she mutters. “You didn’t?” I tease her through the fabric, rubbing the crease of her with two
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