The couch was too small for what was happening.
Amber straddled him anyway, her knees digging into the cushions, the hem of her dress sliding high enough that it barely counted as a barrier. The TV hummed in the background, forgotten. Her hair fell across her flushed face as she leaned in close, lips parted, breathing fast, every movement screaming invitation.
Ethan’s hands gripped her thighs, sliding upward, slow as hell, his fingertips tracing fire along bare skin. She tilted her hips against him, the friction undeniable, the kind of grinding that made her moan low in her throat. He pulled her tighter, one hand cupping her ass, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp.
Everything pointed toward the kiss. The slow build, the heavy breathing, the way her body pressed against his like she couldn’t stand distance anymore. But when her mouth hovered over his—when her lips brushed his, begging—he didn’t close the gap.
She froze. Not because she didn’t want it. But because he didn’t take it.
Her eyes opened, searching his face. “What are you doing?”
Ethan smirked, thumb stroking her hip in lazy circles, his other hand holding the back of her neck. “You think a kiss is the climax. I think it’s the reward.”
She shivered, every nerve tightening with the denial. Her body wanted him to devour her mouth, to push past hesitation and leave her gasping. Instead, he kissed the side of her jaw, slow and deliberate, lips trailing to her ear, whispering things that made her thighs press tighter around him.
Amber hated it—hated how much it turned her on. The refusal, the waiting. His mouth slid down her neck, each kiss lower, each one slower. Her back arched, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. She wanted his lips on hers, craved it so badly that it made her whimper.
But still, he didn’t.
And that was the point.
