Mortification grips your neck with far more force and intensity than Frost had, fighting for and easily winning the top spot in the tournament of emotional warfare ensuing within you. Your eyes close against the treacherous sound. Against the conflicting sensations his irritatingly sexy fingers evoke. Against the exhausting knowledge that your body refuses to side with you.
It’s like they have a mind of their own, his fingers; separate beings in their own right, competent and confident in their execution of his will. They slide down the curves of your behind, and you feel your glutes clench involuntarily at the motion, your nostrils flaring below eyes still too afraid to open and see it all happen.
But yet again, your body acts of its own accord, snapping them open to find him descending in front of you in line with his limbs, his head leveling with yours while his hands rest at the underside of your cheeks, fingers sinking into the creases. Instantly, you hold your breath, as though the action will insulate you from what’s happening. As if halting your breathing will somehow halt his actions or make them less nerve-wracking.