He was done. He could take caning across his bare back or bamboo under his fingernails, but he sure as hell didn’t stand a chance against this kind of torture. A man’s resolve was only so strong against a woman like Sam. Telling his subconscious to take a hike, he hitched her leg over his lap. She drew a quick breath, but then settled astride him as if her body was made to fit his. Her legs cradled his thighs, and the center of her heat married flawlessly over his growing erection.
Imagining what it would feel like to be buried deep inside her, he shifted to encourage more friction. Her body went rigid, her spine as straight as a damn board, then she relaxed and trailed her hands along every piece of his available skin. Up under his sleeve to his biceps, where she squeezed the muscles; across his chest and stomach; his back.
The impression of her touch lasted even after her hands moved on to their next location.
His shirt was off in seconds, and he was doing his damnedest to remove hers just as quickly. Would she be upset if he ripped it from her body? It was a mere scrap of fabric anyway.