"That gives us twenty-nine minutes to fuck," he said, breathless, letting her push him down onto the cushions.
Drake's back hit the plush sofa with a soft thud, the wind barely knocked out of him, though he didn't mind one bit. His shirt was halfway off, his hair slightly disheveled from Queen's impatient fingers. The countdown had begun—not just on the clock, but on his sanity.
She climbed onto his lap. "Let's make it count," she said.
Her hands slipped beneath his shirt, trailing over his abs. Drake reached for her hips.
But then—just as their mouths were about to crash into each other, he froze.
"Wait!" he said, hands halting her movement mid-grind. "I just remembered something. So, coming outside you sucks—really—and for some reason, I never get around to getting protection. So…" His words trailed off awkwardly as he watched her reaction.
Queen smiled.
