Obsessed with My Rival
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“Tell me where you want my hands,” Oliver said.
I caught his wrist and slid his palm under the hem of my shirt. “Here. Unless you need me to draw you a diagram.”
His thumb traced my waist. I felt the warmth of his hand against my skin—and the warmth of my skin against his hand. My breath caught.
“Still want that diagram?” he asked.
I pulled him in by his tie. “I want you to stop talking.”
***...
I caught his wrist and slid his palm under the hem of my shirt. “Here. Unless you need me to draw you a diagram.”
His thumb traced my waist. I felt the warmth of his hand against my skin—and the warmth of my skin against his hand. My breath caught.
“Still want that diagram?” he asked.
I pulled him in by his tie. “I want you to stop talking.”
***...




















