Page 8 of Misguided Vows

No.

No.

The pulsing between my thighs intensifies as his feather-light touch glides along my elbow.

Yes.

No.

Maybe?

Fuck it.

My head nods of its own accord.

“Oh, what a good girl you are,” he croons, sliding his hand from my elbow, until it’s between us. He reaches down and lifts my skirt, his cock still firmly pushing against my leg through his pants.

My hips move back just a little to give him more access as he slides his hand up, and I am so thankful right now that I have on a skirt. My hands stay at my sides, unsure if I should touch him.

Should I?

Probably not.

Am I out of my fucking mind doing this?

Yes.

Am I elated about it? Also fucking yes.

He moves my panties to the side, and as his fingers slide between my folds, he presses on my clit, then moves his finger again, dancing down to where I’m throbbing.

I suck in a breath as I stare into his blue eyes that seem to be attuned to my every twist in expression.

The energy around us is charged.

He’s intense.

I blame the alcohol. Or maybe the lack of having sex with someone for so many months.

I want him to touch me all over and to absolutely ravish me.

I inevitably fall forward, my face pressing against his blue button-up shirt, as he slides the first finger in. I grab his other wrist, my hand clenching around his watch, to center myself. A small moan escapes me, a mixture of relief and demand for more. Especially when I can feel his very hard cock between us. I’m so hyper-focused on what he’s doing, that I can’t think straight.

What is even happening?

I hate this man, don’t I?

He slides in and out with a perfect rhythm. His thumb circles my clit, applying just the right amount of pressure, but I feel greedy for more as I rub against him. I can’t help myself. The champagne has gone straight to my head, but fuck, this feels so good.

My head lolls back as he inserts a second finger, and now I’m shamelessly riding his hand. Fuck, I hate this man so much. But the way he makes me feel…

“I’ve never seen you so quiet,” he says smugly.

My eyes burst open at his comment, but neither of us change the rhythm.

“Shut up. Your personality is still off-putting,” I whisper shout as I ride his hand to oblivion.

He chuckles, and it does something to me. It’s like it runs down my spine and almost snaps me in two as he says, “But you like my fingers?”

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