Don't Make Me Beg (Ashford Falls, #2)

by Jeré Anthony

The moment our lips meet, it’s like lightning crashes through me, sharp and all-consuming. My whole body aches with need. I’m an ember reigniting, and he’s the oxygen in my lungs, fueling me, fanning the spark until I’m a full-blown inferno, ready to devour everything in my path.

“Fucking hell, baby. You’re going to make me come if you keep grinding that pretty pussy on me like a needy whore.”

Besides, pain and pleasure are both sensations; the only difference between the two is the person’s perspective.

Like an artist, he paints me—deliberate and purposeful—making a mess of me. He claims me with every drop, as if he’s branding me as his alone. It’s degrading. Demeaning. Absolutely filthy.