my pelvis to settle his hot flesh between my rippling, aching lips.
His hand slipped between us, tracing the topography of my clit, setting a swallowing pulse through my core that brought him a millimeter deeper. He felt the desire, the permission, the plea of my body and gave it what it wanted, gave me everything I wanted, pressing into me with stinging heat.
And I settled onto him with a gentle shimmy, allowing him as deep as he could go.
The pain fell away, and the pleasure rose to take its place until it was forgotten.
His breath rattled from restraint, his length thumping a single pulse. And when I was relaxed and open to him, he moved.
My hands hung on his waist as he pulled out of me in a slow, aching stroke. And when he filled me again, there was no resistance, just a slide of his body into mine and a deep sigh of pleasure from our lips. My thighs were slung over his, his thumb shifting languidly around my clit as he rocked into me and out of me, unhurried and deliberate. The sensation overwhelmed me, the fullness, the glorious strangeness of his body inside mine, the lightning shocks from the point where his thumb worked my body, the hot, slow burn simmering in my womb, radiating across my skin, arresting my mind. There were only the points where we touched, nothing else.
I lost my sense of self, caught in a fever pitch. He teased the heat in me, fanned the flame, set me on fire with the wildness of my need for him. And he knew what I needed when I didn’t, knew how to move when I couldn’t, knew where to touch, where to press, where to love me inside and out. My eyes closed, chin tilted, lungs straining, rhythm racing until it broke with a cry from my lips and a lock of my body, ribs to hips to core, a frozen moment of limbo that kicked into motion again with galloping thunder.
He lowered to meet me, his lips grazing my chin, my cheek, my forehead. My body clamped around him, impossibly tight, impossibly full, his hips slowing—not for lack of want, but for lack of space. But my body didn’t care, just pulled and flexed and drew him deeper.
The second the pressure eased, my body languished, he thrust again, filling me with a slam that jostled my body from the force. A low moan of pleasure slipped past my lips, my heavy arms curling around his neck. An echoing moan from the base of his throat. A jolt as he hit the end of me and retreated. His breath labored. His hips circled. A pause of his body buried deep within mine, as if to wait, to hold off, to prolong his pleasure. But it was no use. With a hard, long thrust, he filled me up and sighed my name, the sound choking in a grunt as he came.
The last time, I’d been too preoccupied to recognize anything beyond myself. But as he spent himself, I cataloged everything. The pinch of his brow, the tightness of his eyes, slammed shut against the feeling. His full lips, parted and gasping. The cords of his neck, tight and straining. The lock of his muscular thighs. The thick length of him pulsing inside me. The feel of his hand on my face, the way his lips tasted of salt and sex when he kissed me. The sated, heavy feeling in my womb, the lazy weight of my arms and legs wrapped around him.
He broke the kiss, his hands on my face, thumbing my lip as he looked down at me.
“Are you all right?” he asked gently.
“Perfect,” I whispered.
And for the first time in my life, it was the absolute truth.
The sun had gone down some time ago, though I couldn’t have told you what time it was. That particular unit of measure had ceased to exist in the long hours we spent in bed, talking and kissing and touching and loving.
I didn’t know if there would ever be enough time to love or if my heart would ever get its fill of him.
I suspected that well was infinite.
I lay half across his chest, my arm draped lazily over him, his arm hooked lazily around me while he toyed with my hair, wrapping long strands around square fingertips.
“Can we stay like this forever?” I asked on a long, heady sigh.
“Without a doubt.”
I smiled, shifting to rest my chin