Mortification grips my 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 me. My eyes close against the treacherous sound. Against the conflicting sensations his irritatingly sexy fingers evoke. Against the exhausting knowledge that my body refuses to side with its owner.
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 their owner’s will. They slide down the curves of my behind, and I feel my glutes clench involuntarily at the motion, my nostrils flaring below eyes still too afraid to open and see it all happen.
But yet again, my body acts of its own accord, snapping them open to find him descending in front of me in line with his limbs, his head leveling with mine while his hands rest at the underside of my cheeks, fingers sinking into the creases. Instantly, I hold my breath, as though the action will insulate me from what’s happening. As if halting my breathing will somehow halt his actions or make them less nerve-wracking.