Janet

Arthur’s breath hitched, his forehead resting against mine as the pace quickened. He wasn’t trying to be gentle anymore, and I didn’t want him to be.

I wanted the friction; I wanted the weight of him pressing me back against the cold metal shelves. Every time he hit deep, he tickled my most sensitive spot. I had never been alive like I was in that closet.

I was pleasantly surprised by his stamina. It may have taken a moment to get him up, but he sure knew how to move. He lifted ...