His hand slid lower, his fingers parting my slick, aching folds. He groaned as he felt the evidence of my desire, the wet heat that was solely for him. "So ready for me," he husked, his fingers circling my clit with expert precision. "So wet. Is all of this for me, Sariah? Do you get this wet thinking about your Ninong fucking you?" I couldn't help it. A broken cry was torn from my throat as pleasure, sharp and bright, lanced through me. He pushed one finger inside me, then two, stretching me, preparing me. His thumb never stopped its merciless circling. "Please..." I gasped, my hips bucking against his hand, needing more, needing him. He stilled his movements, a cruel, effective torture. "Please what, little one?" he taunted, his eyes boring into mine. He leaned his weight into me, letting me feel the thick, hard length of him straining against his pants. "Do you want me to stop?" He knew the question was a lie. My body was begging him. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice a silke
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