“His voice pours over me like hot syrup. "Doesn't matter what I say, does it? I could tell you that watching you suck on that juicy bit of mango was one of the erotic highlights of my life. That I want to lick the pink, pouty curve of your lower lip to see if it's sticky sweet." Gently, he touches the swell of my lip, and I feel it deep within my sex. "Such a pouty fucking mouth," he whispers. "Always frowning at me with that plump lower lip." I. Cannot. Breathe. I am flush with fever-bright heat. And it is all Macon's fault.”
Book:Dear Enemy