Olivia should have recoiled from his words. She should have stayed firmly grounded in her logical protest, waved away the blush painting her cheeks, and snapped something flustered to shut him down.
But instead, she found herself...stuck.
Trapped in the cadence of his voice. The intimate detail of his description. The imagery he wove into every syllable.
The way he talked about Abigaille, about tasting her, drinking her in, lips and tongue lost between her thighs like he'd found his purpose there, Olivia could see it.
Not just imagine it vaguely, but vividly.
The way he might have laid Abigaille back, spread her legs open, pressed his face into her softness and let his mouth sink deep, lapping and sucking, slow at first, then eager, greedy.
The way his fingers might have held her hips down while she squirmed beneath him, moaning, dripping for him.
A shiver coiled through Olivia's spine.
