Mara’s already on fire with anger, when he meets her in their bedroom. It only grows as they dress together. A rush: scrambling out of work clothes into something more appropriate for a night of dinner, drinks, a friend’s party. John only makes it halfway into his clothing before she snaps, and turns to him hands on the soft swell of her hips.
“I don’t even know why I’m rushing! We’re going to be late. You always make us late!”
She isn’t wrong. They are going to be late for the party. And it is his fault. He’s sorry, and he’s already tried to tell her ten times, whispering it into her milk-pale shoulder. His personal Snow White. Dark hair and red lips.
Except he has no huntsman’s cloak and she’s shimmed her way into the tiniest red lingerie instead of some fine gown. The round globes of her ass sit pretty atop her legs, only accentuated by her heels as she stalks and yells. (Which, sure, he probably does deserve.)
But he also doesn’t miss the way her dark eyes crawl over him. Not enough to make him show off, but she’d said a thousand times before. That she loves his solid build, the hold she isn’t strong enough to break free from, the bulk of his body on top of hers.
They’ve spun out this game dozens of times before. It’s not always this. But it is always something, some reason to rile the blood in both of them. Sometimes the game is as simple as I’m running, come chase me. Her body splayed out underneath his, Sometimes it’s come touch, come look, oh no, I’ve changed my mind.
The way those little games end is always the same: the two of them, bodies coming together,
He is certain that she’s noticed his cock getting hard as he watches her walk back...
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Read all about the wonderful author: Gabrielle Johnson
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