She’s panting on the couch when I let my fingers slip away, her eyes glassy and wide as she stares up at the ceiling. I can’t help the urge to try to get a better look at her, climbing up onto the couch and curling my body so I can press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “See? Much more agreeable.” “Fuck you,” she says again, but it sounds less threatening in the breathy way she says it. “Happy to,” I mutter, letting my lips slide against the skin under her jaw. “On your knees. Grab the couch.” “Stop fucking telling me what to do.”
