It feels like a too-close candle. Its flame dances up my rib cage, raising every hair and goosebump in its wake. It must be Gabriel’s finger or knuckle, and My God, the mere proximity, the mere thought of him touching me, is all-consuming. As the heat drifts along the band of my bikini top, a cramp of desperation seizes me. I need more than his near-touch or his praise. I need his grip, his friction. I need to feel the scratch of his beard between my inner thighs, the sharp points of his teeth sinking into my flesh. I need to know what it’d feel like to be pinned between his body and a
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