Dee Moyza

He squeezed her shoulder as he said goodnight, and her nerves lit up with the electric thought of how those hands might feel elsewhere—skimming her waist, sliding over her hips, gently parting her thighs, with his mouth never far behind, hot and tender, his words long since lost to hungry groans—and all she could do was lean back against the door as her knees melted, look into his eyes, and stupidly whisper, “You, too.”