‘Beckett.’ My name is her prayer, my hand between her legs our communion. ‘You should be wearing a skirt,’ I growl into her neck. ‘Like the one with the blue belt.’ ‘You remember that, do you?’ ‘I remember everything. I wanted to gather it in my fingers. Slide my hands up your soft thighs and into your underwear. Touch you. Taste you. Wear your scent like a cologne.’ And now that I have, I’m not sure I’ll ever be sated. ‘Beckett,’ she moans again, pushing herself into my hand. ‘Take me to bed.’ ‘No, not this time.’ I want her here, up against the door, my fingers on her throat, tangled in her
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