Iyisha's legs fell open wider without conscious thought, thighs trembling as they parted for him. The damp cotton between her legs clung heavily to her, but it was nothing compared to the weight of Malcolm's palm as he cupped her fully through her soaked panties.
His fingers pressed the fabric tight against her swollen folds, molding it to every curve, every slick crease.
She arched off the tile, spine bowing, a sharp hitch catching in her throat.
He didn't move his hand away.
He simply held her there, possessive and unyielding, letting her feel the steady throb of her own pulse against his skin.
Then he lowered his face.
Close enough that his breath brushed over her inner thighs. Close enough that she could see his gaze travel—lingering on the darkened fabric at her center, moving slowly up the quivering plane of her stomach, over the flushed peaks of her breasts, and finally locking with her wide, glassy eyes.
