Page 65 of Dirty Game
She steps closer.
The water mists her face, beads on her lips. She’s close enough now that I can see the fine lines around her eyes, the flecks of gold in her blue.
“Show me what I’m meant for,” she says, and there’s no hesitation.
She moves closer and stands with her back to the spray.
The shirt goes transparent, sticking to her skin, outlining every curve, every shadow.
The fabric clings to her chest, nipples peaked and dark beneath.
The leggings darken, contouring her thighs, the split at her hip where the fabric is thinnest.
I reach for her, sliding a hand up her side.
The fabric is cold, slippery, and I want to rip it off, but I don’t.
Instead, I pull her to me, press her body against mine, feeling the heat of her through the wet. I tilt her face up, thumb along her jaw, and kiss her.
The water makes everything taste like copper and rain.
Her lips are open, her tongue searching, desperate.
She makes a sound when I bite her lower lip, not a moan but a gasp. I slide my hand up her back, fist in her hair, and pull her head back so I can see her throat.
“You sure?” I whisper.
She nods, eyes wide.
I drag the shirt up, over her head, and toss it aside.
Her tits are perfect, and I take a moment to admire them, then cup them in both hands, thumbing the tips until she shivers.
I lower my head, tongue flicking, teeth grazing, and she arches into me.
The leggings are next.
I slide them down her hips, slow, savoring the way her skin pebbles under my touch.
She steps out of them, bare except for a strip of black lace. I hook a finger in the waistband and let it snap.
I want to tear it off, but I don’t. I want her to say the word, to give it to me.
Instead, I slide my hand between her legs, pressing against the wetness there. She whimpers, hips rocking forward, and I know she’s never done this before.
I ease a finger inside, slow, and watch her face as she adjusts.
She closes her eyes, mouth parted, hands gripping my arms like I’m the only thing holding her up.
I work her, slow and steady, adding another finger when she begs for it.
Her body is tight, trembling, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she chases the pleasure, grinding against my hand, breath coming faster, lips swollen and bitten.
“Good girl,” I tell her, and she shudders.
She’s close now. I can feel it in the way she clenches around me, in the desperate little noises she makes.
I keep going, not stopping even when her knees start to give.
