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Sitting back on his heels, Elia curls his finger inside me, stroking against my front walls. A fire low in my belly grows, orange and red flames dotting my vision as the pressure mounts. “Marry me, then.”
One of my all time fave books. 4% in, he’s on his knees, head between her legs, telling her to marry him. Sigh.
My body aches for hers, like a sore muscle in desperate need of a massage, and the desire coursing through me makes me nervous.
This is what I want.
He shakes his head, glancing down at the dessert tray by his foot. “Juliet brought cookies? You didn’t bake anything today?” “I wasn’t really feeling up to it.” Alarm flashes behind his eyes, and he’s discarding his jacket and rushing into the pool before I have a chance to amend my sentence. He swims over in record time, his strokes clean and lithe, and my mouth actually fucking waters watching his back muscles ripple in the water.
