His finger pushes deeper, hitting a perfect, toe-curling spot inside me.
I can't think, can't breathe—can only feel. The energy between us rushes like a freaking tidal wave; it's become millions of threads, impossible to contain as it overwhelms every rational thought.
He curls and drives his finger just right, dragging moans out of me with every slow grind, and it's absolute madness in my head.
My hips buck against his hand with a will of their own. I'm grinding down, chasing the pressure, the friction, desperate for more. The golden threads connecting us pulse brighter with each movement, multiplying until they're all I can see behind half-closed eyes.
"Do you have control, Grace?"
Fuck. I was supposed to be focusing.
His voice is strained, as if he's hanging onto his restraint by a thread.
Me, too.
I shake my head—wildly, desperately, honestly. The confession burns my pride, but lying now would be catastrophic.
