She wasn't free.
She wasn't done.
And neither was he.
Her heart kicked—one, two, sharp, erratic pulses against her ribs—as she gasped, her thighs forced painfully wider. Her flushed body clung to his torso out of sheer instinct and muscle memory.
Her pussy, still deliciously sore and tender from the hours before, was practically drooling around the thick base of his shaft. It pulsed against him, warm and inviting, as if her anatomy remembered his touch even more vividly than her conscious mind did.
Her arms locked tighter around his neck. She didn't know if he meant to drop her onto the sheets or take her right there standing up. Her tender breasts crushed into his chest, the raw scrape of her erect nipples rubbing against his skin making her suck in a shaky, shallow breath.
She was exhausted.
She was aching.
But god, she was also throbbing.
"I said," he growled, the sound thick with smoke and dark promises, "whenever I ask."
