Hand pressing down

Marcus's hand presses down on the back of her head, firm but not forceful, guiding her forward until her cheek meets the pillow. The pink tube top strains against her chest as her torso flattens against the mattress, and the white thong pulls taut across her hips. She feels the cool fabric of the sheets against her heated skin, and then she feels him — the solid, insistent press of his pelvis against her from behind, the outline of his cock through his shorts sliding against the thin barrier of her thong.

A sharp breath escapes her lips into the pillow. Her hands grip the sheets on either side of her head, knuckles whitening, as she feels the length of him pressing against her damp heat. The sensation is electric, a jolt that travels up her spine and settles low in her belly. She doesn't pull away. She doesn't arch into him either. She just holds herself still, trembling, her heart hammering against her ribs.

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