MAILAH GASPED.
It might be the fourth one. Or fifth? She lost count.
The way Grayson moved his tongue was so slow.
Deliberate.
Like he was reading braille against her skin with it.
She tried to press her hips up—just an inch—but his grip tightened instantly, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. The sharp pinch of pain made her gasp again, louder this time.
Her breath hitched when he finally—finally—slid a single finger into her, the stretch deliberate, the drag of his knuckle against sensitive flesh calculated to make her hips jerk.
He held her still with his free hand splayed across her abdomen, his grip firm enough that she could feel the imprint of each finger branding her skin.
It was unbearable: the slow, relentless movement inside her while his thumb continued its lazy orbit just shy of where she needed him most.
