“Whatever my lady asks for,” I said. Her hands dropped from her face. Even through her wine-haze, she recognized the words I’d said unthinkingly as we sat around the bonfire months earlier. Her mouth fell open in a gentle O. There it was again—the complete dichotomy of how I felt when I was around her. I wanted to trace the line of her lips with my fingertip. And I wanted to press her back into the seat and tear at her clothes. I wanted to gather her in my arms and do nothing more than hold her. And I wanted to rut her into the car’s upholstery like a wild fucking beast.
