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I mean to stop him. To ask him what he means but every rational thought I have spins away from me when he runs his tongue up the inside of my thigh. “Fuck.” His tone is gruff, strangled. “Open your legs.”
I do what he says. Give him what he wants. I spread my legs, a soft whimper escaping my lips when he wraps his fingers around the tops of my thighs, running the pad of his thumb up the center of me. “Jesus Christ.” He says it so low in his throat it sounds like a growl, this fingers digging into my hips, hard enough to bruise, chest heaving like he’s been running for days. Then he looks up at me. “Last chance,” he says quietly. “Last chance to change your mind.”
Something in his tone tells me he wants me to. He wants me to change my mind. He wants me to throw on my clothes and run for my life. To save us both.
But I can’t. I’m too selfish. I want him too much. I don’t care where he was a few hours ago. What he was doing. That it wasn’t with me.
I need this. Him. I always have.
I don’t say any of it. I don’t explain. I just shake my head, reaching out to thread my fingers through his hair, urging him closer. “I already told you—I’m not changing my mind.”
His neck stiffens under my grip for a moment before he sighs, the sound of it half relief, half resignation, whispers across my bare thighs.
“Then my answer is yes.”