Good Girl, Mama

"Words, mama," he said softly, his voice firm but tender. "Use your words."

I swallowed hard, my cheeks burning. "Yes, Sylus," I whispered, the words trembling on my lips. "I want you to touch me." 

The weight of his hand on my jaw sent a shiver racing down my spine, every nerve in my body attuned to the warmth of his touch. His thumb brushed my cheekbone in lazy, deliberate strokes, as if he was memorizing the feel of me.

"Say it again," he murmured, his voice low and rough, a caress in itself.

"Yes," I whispered, breathless, my gaze locked on his. "I want you to touch me."

A flicker of something dangerous lit up his eyes—hunger, maybe even need—and then his lips were on mine again. This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His kiss was fierce, consuming, leaving no room for doubt.