Chapter 92

• He shoves the fabric of my dress to the tops of my thighs.
• “Hold that there,” he orders as he strips himself of his jacket, laying it on the one kitchen chair next to the door, then yanks the drenched, darkened lace of my black panties aside and presses a finger to my opening.
• I grab the lavender hem of my dress and hold it, leaning back on my other hand. I'm so wet that the countertop is slick under me. His mouth drags over my tits as they fall over the scrunched-up fabric of my dress. His beard scratches, his mouth a warm, wet wonderland.