Ad copy

"Jesus Christ." He groaned against my neck. Hand pressing harder. "You're soaking through denim. I feel how tight and wet you are out there, Princess..” The crude observation should've embarrassed me. Should've made me push him away and demand some kind of respect. Or decorum. Or literally anything except this barn and his hands and the way my body was betraying every defense I'd built. Instead it made my core clench so hard I saw stars. "Are you really that eager for me to defile you with my cock?" The words were crude. Raw. Exactly the kind of thing that should've shocked me into sobriety. But they didn't. They made me want him more. Made me want to prove that I wasn't too young or too innocent or too whatever excuse he'd been using to keep distance. "Yes." Came out desperate. Needy. Completely honest. "God yes. I want you to take what we both know you want." "You have no idea what you do to me." His voice was wrecked. Barely recognizable. "No fucking idea." "Then show me." Challenged him even though my pulse was trying to escape through my throat. "Stop telling me and show me." That did it. Whatever thread of restraint he'd been clinging to—gone. His hands found my tank top. One sharp pull and fabric ripped. Buttons scattered across hay like tiny casualties of war. The sound echoed in the barn—destruction and want and something irreversible happening between us. Cool air hit my skin. Then his mouth replaced it—hot, demanding, everywhere at once. He kissed down my throat. Teeth scraping. Tongue soothing. Building a map of marks that would tell everyone exactly what happened here.