For the second time that night, the man crashed Lyria’s lips. His kisses became demanding, insistent. His tongue explored deeper than before. His hand caressed Lyria’s face gently, holding her in place. There was no room for escape. The other hand rested on her chest and fondled her breast. His touch sent fireworks to explode inside of Lyria.
She could not help not to groan.
Why am I like this? Why is he able to make me feel this way?
Lyria felt groggy. Her mind could not form a single coherent thought as his kisses travel to her neck. His calloused hand almost ripped her dress to have more access, but Lyria swatted the hand.
“I like the dress,” she said breathlessly, “Leave it as it is.”
“As you say, Princess.”
The man gave a light peck on Lyria’s cheek before pulling up her skirt.
