One Wicked Week. Nicola Marsh

she shimmied out of the dress and let it fall to the floor in a soft swoosh.

      She stepped out of the dress and he was on her in an instant.

      ‘You have amazing tits,’ he murmured, running his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, before cupping her breasts in his hands.

      ‘Prove it—oh.’ She gasped as her taunt had the desired effect and his mouth fastened on a nipple through the satin.

      She arched towards him and with a deft flick of his fingers he had the bra unhooked and his lips on her, feasting. Licking and sucking, nibbling and nipping, alternating between her nipples until her knees weakened.

      He must’ve felt her wobble because he raised his head, his eyes so passion-hazed she wondered if he could actually see her, before he blinked. A slow, wicked smile spread across his face as his fingers toyed with her panties.

      ‘You taste even better than I remember.’

      Jayda tried to come up with something witty in response but her brain wouldn’t function with his fingertips repeatedly grazing the sensitive skin on the tops of her thighs. He slid a finger under the elastic of her panties, plucking at it, over and over, teasing her, driving her mad with want.

      ‘Brock, please...’ she whispered, gritting her teeth against the urge to shove him onto the bed and ride him until dawn. The ache between her thighs had become unbearable and her panties were drenched. She didn’t need the foreplay, not after six long years. She needed him.

      ‘Please what?’ He hooked his thumb into one side of her panties and she groaned in relief.

      ‘Please fuck me.’