Wren

Music.

Whiskey.

The crowd.

Ezra’s scent…his hands…his lips…his length.

All my senses are on fire, nerve ending stretching to the surface.

My pulse quickens, our lips devouring each other’s, nipping, biting, sucking. I feel heady, dizzy…

I’m drowning in this man, and I don’t want to come up for air.

“Oh fuck, birdie.” His voice is rough, hoarse.

He kisses the thundering pulse in my neck, fingers skimming up my thighs and under my dress.

My knees tremble, eyes ...