The growl makes her shudder, in a good way. There’s an ache low in her body, and there’s not nearly enough skin. Please, she thinks, please Mordred; the thought is tangled up with yearning and need. She kisses harder, craving his mouth, his hands.
Mordred flips them over so he is on top of her, his lips trailing down over her jaw, his knee moving in between her legs. “I lied,” he whispers, nipping at the skin on her neck, “I can’t wait.”
Summer puts her head back for him, exposing her throat. Her hands slide down his body, spanning his waist, sliding lower to grip at his hips. “Mordred,” she says, and it comes out a whimper, pleading. She drops her hands to fumble at the lacing of her bodice.