His naked body beneath mine felt hot, firm, undeniably masculine. I touched every inch of him, every hard curve, every taut muscle, as if memorizing a map of something I had craved for an eternity. Every touch was a brutal confession, a desperate plea, a harsh reminder of my unworthiness and my searing need.
I traced the line of his jaw with my tongue, then moved lower, to his throat, his chest, my mouth demanding, tasting, claiming him. "You know," I chuckled, my breath heavy, almost a sob, "I always thought you were too good for me. Brilliant Doctor Satoko, admired by everyone, almost saintly. And me? I'm just a spoiled, messed-up brat who somehow got lucky."
He threaded his fingers into my hair, a low, guttural moan escaping his throat. "Shut up, Kairi," his voice rasped, thick with desire and distress. "Don't talk."
