“You think about fucking me sometimes?” I ask, pressing a kiss to her neck, slipping a strap off her shoulder, and trailing my lips and teeth along her skin.

“Yeah.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s my go-to when I get myself off,” she admits without hesitation.

“So you think of me like five times a day?”

Harlow laughs and it catches in a little hiccup when I push her skirt over her hips and lift her onto the dresser, spreading her legs and stepping forward. I’m already hard and the feel of the bare warmth of her pussy against the denim over my cock is enough to have me hissing against her mouth, pushing my hips forward.

She presses into me and I slide my hand between us, reaching to touch the soft, slick skin between her thighs.

Fuck.

She’s gasping these perfect little breaths and shaking against me, and I’m so hard it’s all I can do to not reach for my fly, pull out my dick, and rub all over this, but instead I slide my fingers over her unbelievably soft body. She’s the only woman I’ve felt in so long. It’s hard to not let my mind instinctively tattoo her with mine when I kiss her neck, her lips, her shoulder. And it’s easy to pretend everything beyond this room has evaporated or, at the very least, been put on pause, and that relief—even if imagined—sends a thrill down my spine, coiling tightly at the base. I’m so hard for this girl; she makes me harder than anything I can remember. I swear I can still feel the echo from almost two months ago of her lips kissing down my cock, her hands guiding me into her.

“You have any idea how this feels to me?” I step back enough to watch my fingers slide up and over her clit and back down, lower, inside. I fucking love how they look when they’re wet with her. “God, when did your pussy get so sweet?” I look up to her downcast eyes, the lip trapped savagely between her teeth as she’s watching me touch her. A searing fire iron of a thought stabs at me: “You let that asshole kid lick you here last night?”

She closes her eyes, pushing into my hand, and I lean in to kiss her neck. Her silence is as good as a yes and it further sparks a fire in my chest. And then I remember how she looked this morning: like she simultaneously wanted to fuck me and beat me.

“Tell me you like my mouth.”

She whimpers, choking out, “I like your mouth.”

“Tell me you remember coming on it.”

“I do.”

“How many times?”

Harlow coughs out a laugh and it turns into a groan when I slide my thumb around and around and around her clit. “A lot.”