31

My fingers pause at that. Baby girl. I think I became wetter, too, but that might be because he’s pushed off the wall and is stalking toward me. And it’s downright stalking, with his shoulders squared and his steps slow and measured. And I can’t help feeling the sensation that I’m the prey who caught the attention of the big, bad wolf, but unlike in the fairy tale, I won’t be able to escape. Damn how beautiful he is. And it’s not only about his face that seems to be cut from solid marble or his physique that could crush me as effortlessly as he carried me. It’s about everything else. It’s about the masculinity that oozes from each of his movements. It’s about that delicious authoritativeness that I can’t get enough of. Before I can think of anything to say to make him call me “baby girl” again, he does something. He gets on his knees. At the foot of the bed. In direct view of the apex of my thighs. My hand freezes, and I don’t realize it until he motions at it. “You can’t get yourself