Twisted-Games

RHYS
BRIDGET VON ASCHEBERG WOULD BE THE DEATH OF ME. I’D KNOWN THAT THE
moment I’d set eyes on her, and my prediction was playing out in real time as
I devoured her.
The death of my self-control, my professionalism, and any sense of selfpreservation
I had. None of that mattered when I tasted how sweet she was or
felt how perfectly her curves fit in my palms, like she was tailor-made for me.
Two years of watching and waiting and wishing. It had all come down to
this, and it was even better than I’d imagined.
Bridget’s arms wrapped around my neck, her body pliant beneath mine.
She tasted like mint and sugar, and at that moment, it became my favorite
taste in the world.
I pushed her against the side of the pool and tightened my grip on her
hair, my mouth not leaving hers the entire time.
It wasn’t a sweet kiss. It was hard, demanding, and possessive, borne out
of years of pent-up frustration and tension, but Bridget matched me inch for
inch. She tugged on my hair in return, her tongue tangling with mine and her
little moans going straight to my cock.
“Is this what you want?” I pinched her nipple through her bikini top. That
fucking bikini. My eyes nearly fell out when she’d walked past in her get-up
earlier, and I was glad she’d never worn it to the beach. If she had, I’d have
to kill every fucker who laid eyes on her, and there were other things I’d
rather do on vacation…like take my sweet time exploring every inch of her
luscious body. “Hmm?”
“Yes.” Bridget arched into my touch. “But more. Please.”
I groaned. Definitely the death of me.