Meant To Be

Molly Little stands there in that skimpy red lace, nipples poking through the thin fabric like they know the score. She's thinking about Lucas Frost again—those big hands, that steady way he takes care of her, no games, no bullshit. They click. They do things right. But deep down, all the other stuff is noise she can live without. She wants his cock. Simple. She wants it stretching her, pushing deep until everything else in her head goes quiet. The silk clings to her hips, already damp where she's pressing her thighs together. She pictures him walking in, sees herself on her knees, sees the way he'll grip her hair and feed it to her until her eyes water. Every inch of her aches for that exact thing—no love notes, no promises. Just the way he fucks like he owns her for those hours. Her breath gets short. The lingerie feels too hot, too tight. She drags a finger down between her legs and presses, knows she's already wet, knows exactly what she's waiting for.