Montague felt the rise of her breath, the near panting she was doing (and quite well) in even gasps. “One word,” he said against the satin skin, “one word.” Montague repeated, letting his roughened chin almost lightly scratch against the skin.
His own body was warm and he rose up slightly, God only hoping she would give in, his body ached with a tight urgency that he refused to let himself feel. Blowing across the made mark, he slipped his attention, his cheek to run over the swell of breast. Blowing again, this time over the tight nipple, his lips nearly brushed the dark skin, wondering how much she wanted this- and if the need for it outweighed the other.