“Yes. Do it, sweet girl.” I crook two fingers inside her, pressing my words against her nub. “Come for me.”
It’s a detonation. Of course it is. Poppy lives her whole life in vivid technicolor; she’s an explosion of color and laughter and light. She feels everything so fully, and this is no exception as she shudders against the desk, the wood groaning beneath her. She yanks on my hair and cries out at the ceiling.
“Poppy,” I say, and I’m on my knees, praying. “Poppy.”
Her laugh is strangled. “Whit.”
When she slumps down onto the desk, her grip going slack in my hair,I’mexhausted. I feel like I’ve run twenty miles, not made my girl come. And I’ve got that post-run weightless feeling, too, a giddy rush of endorphins through my veins.
I kiss her on the knee, on the same spot where I touched her all those days ago.
Well.
I guess we finally crossed a line.