Hand Full of Curls
He bent forward, his weight firmly pressed against her back. The rough wood of the table was now scratching against the skin of her thighs. Skirts up and twisted, and his hand firmly entangled in her dark curls, pulling her head back even as he bent her forward. Her neck smelled like a meadow, clean, herbal and warm. He savored the simple scent, no perfumes of Araby, and so clean, even her hair’s scent aroused him. She whimpered slightly, her soft begging beginning again. ‘Please milord,...