“My hands trace her curves. If she wasn’t hurt, I would grab on, right above her hips, and thrust into her. Instead, I continue exploring her, worshiping her. Whenever I see a mark or bruise, I leave a light kiss next to it. The only marks that should ever mar her body are the ones I put there in the throes of passion.
Her moans grow louder as I get closer to her shorts. Below her navel, I kiss her skin and blow across it, making her shiver. I reach for the waistband of her shorts ready to remove them and keep the promise I made to myself of making her scream.
However, my promise is broken when a metaphorical ice bucket is dumped over my head with three little words from a confused male voice.
“What the fu--?”
―
Myra Wards,
Sing for Me