Her grip tightens on him, and he can feel her respond, like paper curling as it burns in a flame. She coils and arches into that touch, her breath going out of her in a slow, shuddering sigh. Her hands fist in his hair and she presses her nose into his thick, dark hair.

"A chuisle, I still want your mouth..."

She can feel his voice resonating in her chest as he groans, and she smiles against his hair.





A woman's voice breaks the reverie.








A woman's voice shouting his name.

Fiona goes dead still. It's probably two in the morning. Whoever that bitch is, she's going to kill her.