THAT CONFESSION—or was it not? —was enough to make my brain stop working for a good five minutes. That five minutes was utterly used by Rhys, to his pure advantage and benefit, as he kept kissing my neck, giving me open-mouthed pecks at my collarbone, and pressing his body more into me as if we were not already too clung to each other.
It was almost like he was addicted to me. He could not even imagine the thought of not touching me for one second. His hands moved desperately, anywhere, any inch of my body, every nook and corner, and he would make sure I felt it, by letting out a tiny groan from the back of his throat, a breathless sound, and a satisfaction from a deep timbre from within his chest. He was very much engaging with me, consuming everything about me like I was his personal o
