His violet eyes met hers. His fingers were still on her pussy. Still tracing. Still rubbing. The pad of his middle finger found the edge of her inner lip. He pressed. Not entering. Just pressing. Feeling the resistance. Feeling the heat.
His other hand came up.
His fingers went to her cleavage. The space between her breasts—bare, exposed, the skin flushed and hot. His finger traced the line between them. Up. Over the swell of her left breast. Over the collarbone. Up the neck. Over the jaw. To her lips.
His finger touched her lower lip.
It was wet. Not with blood. Not with wine. With her. Her own juice. The slick, clear fluid that the drug had forced from her body. His finger had been on her pussy—rubbing, tracing, pressing—and now it was on her lip. He pushed. Gently. His fingertip slipped between her lips. It rested on her tongue.
She tasted herself.
