Off Limits
I watch his hand drop lower, palm pressing against the front of his sweats, and the sound he makes—a low, rough groan—is the hottest thing I've ever heard.
My fingers slide through my wetness, gathering it, spreading it, and I draw small circles around my clit, my hips tilting up to meet my own touch. I'm putting on a show. I know I am. And he's watching like I'm the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"Fuck, Bella." His voice is wrecked, barely a whisper, and the sound of my name in his mouth—the short version, the one only my brother uses—makes my thighs clench, a fresh wave of heat flooding through me.