His timing for kisses was impeccable, she noted somewhere in the back of her mind — invariably he stopped her asking something pushy. Summer cupped her hands at his hips, pulling them together firmly, and melted into the kisses. “Just tell me what you want,” she whispered roughly into his mouth.
“You,” he stated helplessly and continued to massage and squeeze her breasts, learning how they felt in the palms of his hands, how to ensure that she made such delicious noises as he touched her. Mewling and tangling their tongues together, he pressed up against her and shivered in anticipation.
“That’s not fair,” she whimpered, hardly aware she was saying it and not just thinking it. She arched her head back, strands of hair sliding to the floor or catching on the fabric of his jeans.