5: Bryant.

"I'm waiting, Sarah." My hand has been coasting up her thigh and my fingertips reach her panties now, my index finger slipping between her unsettlingly-soft pussy and the cotton crotch, tugging, then pressing back in, knuckle to her slit, rubbing, twisting, making her gasp. "What qualities in a man are important in your world?"

"Umm." Her lashes flutter, neck flushing. "Honesty. Compassion. Humor."

"I'm none of those things," I rasp against her mouth—just as her flesh blooms open, allowing me to knuckle gently deeper and tease her clit.

Her grip flies to the arm of the couch, back arching on a rocky intake of breath. "Guess you're out of the running then."

"Your wet pussy says I'm not just in the running, I'm in first place."

"Mr. Colliver—"

I don't know why her formal use of my name sets me off, but it does. I like it because a sick part of me looks forward to her obedience in bed. I hate it, too, because I want to be Bryant to her. Before I can reconcile my own intentions, I move in