Birthright

She squeezed him between her thighs, lending him an impression of their strength and of her shape, of the way she might fit against him. She hooked her ankles in place. Her palms grasped his sandy colored hair in handfuls and her fingernails scratched at his scalp. “Mm, I don’t care,” she muttered and meant it. “As long as it feels like this.” The slayer bit his bottom lip. Any opportunity to lose her head, to experience a sensation so powerfully that her lungs constricted and she couldn’t catch her breath and her teeth chattered.