He dipped her again, deeper this time, and she let him—trusted him completely, let herself fall backward knowing he'd catch her, always catch her. Her eyes found his from upside down, dark and shining with something that looked almost like tears, skirt riding high enough to reveal the slick, swollen lips of her bare pussy glistening in the low light.
"You're scaring me," she whispered. "In the best possible way."
"Good."
"Phei—"
"What in the absolute hell is going on out here?"
Maddie.
Madison Whitmore stood at the top of the spiraling stairs, blonde hair a glorious post-sex disaster—tousled waves falling over shoulders that were barely covered by a silk robe hanging scandalously open.
The robe was a joke—short, sheer in places, slipping off one shoulder to reveal the heavy, perfect curve of one breast, nipple dark and peaked, the other barely contained.
