42

The edge where nothing and no one else matters. The edge where it’s just me and him without the world’s judgment, labeling, and bullshit. “He can’t touch it,” I breathe out. “And why is that?” “Because it’s yours.” His jaw clenches and I can tell how much he’s aroused now, because his nostrils flare and the possessiveness washes over me in waves. It’s why I say things like that; I know they make him shed his control and turn into the powerful dominant who’s able to tear my world to pieces. And then he curses and I get wetter at the thought that he wants me so much, he can’t contain it. Other men sound coarse when they curse, he sounds hotter than sin. “What’s mine?” His voice is thicker, deeper. “My pussy. It’s yours.” “Fuck.” “Yes, please fuck me.” He closes his eyes, and even though his jaw is in a rigid line, I think he’s trying to conjure some form of patience, but when he opens them, he isn’t calm. On the contrary, his eyes are nearly black with all the shadows crowding his mascul