Embroidery presses into my knees. My hands grasp his headboard, struggling to hold myself upright as his lips explore my body. I hadn't expected this – tenderness mixed with punishment, soft caresses and reproachful slaps.
Intoxicating.
"How do you know I'm not just living out a high school fantasy of fucking the quarterback?" he mutters, biting the tip of my shoulder.
"I don't," I whisper, my eyes finding his. It is the truth and a lie, for I see the flicker in his eyes.
Hope.
Then it's gone.
His hands flatten against my chest, glide over my abdomen. My lips part.
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