I rise onto my arms and kiss him, pouring everything I am into the press of my lips. Then I pull him down with me, our bodies aligning, fitting together like we were made for this. I feel him, hard and hot, pressed between my thighs, and I reach down, guiding him with a trembling hand. I notch him at my entrance, slick and ready, and he pauses. His eyes find me, and he rests his forehead against mine, our breath mingling together as he begins to push forward.
He slides into me slowly, inch by inch, and my breath catches. I tense, the stretch is sharp and unfamiliar, but his voice grounds me.
“Relax, baby,” he murmurs, soft and coaxing.
So, I do. I breathe. I let go.
My hand finds him, and my fingers hook around the back of his neck, threading through the soft weight of his hair. My thumb grazes the curve of his ear, and I hold it there, needing the contact, needing Ford.
And I let him fill me with a long, slow push that makes my whole-body tremble.
He curses under his breath as he seats himself fully inside me.
He fists the sheets beside my head, knuckles white, like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.
He stays still, buried deep, panting uneven breaths against my cheek. For a moment, the world narrows to the sound of our breathing and the thud of my heart.
His thumb brushes my jaw, tenderly and slowly, and he whispers breathless.
“Fuck, Stormy. You feel so fucking perfect around me.”
I wrap my legs around him, drawing him closer, and he begins to move in steady, unhurried strokes that make my breath hitch with every pass.
His lips find mine again, gentler this time, and each thrust is a promise, each kiss a tether, and I hold onto him like he’s the only thing keeping me grounded.
But then our pace begins to change. Slow, deliberate strokes give way to something more frantic and more desperate. Each thrust drives deeper—harder—and I feel the tension coil low in my belly, sharp and electric.
Our breathing grows ragged, and our mouth’s part between kisses, gasps, and moans. He leans onto one hand beside my head, the other grips my waist, gentle but firm, guiding me into each thrust like he knows exactly how to undo me.
I feel the slick heat between my thighs grow wetter with every stroke, my arousal spilling out around him, coating us both.
“That's it, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Let me feel you.”
I gasp, my fingers digging into his skin, and he groans at the contact.
“You’re doing so good,” he breathes, hips driving deeper. “So fucking good for me.”
I moan—the sound torn from my throat—and he dips his head, lips brushing my jaw.
“God, you’re tight … so wet … fuck, I can feel you clenching around me.”
I arch beneath him as the pleasure crests, but he doesn’t let up.
“Come for me, Stormy,” he urges, voice thick with need. “I want to feel you fall apart.”
His words push me over the edge, and I cry out his name as the orgasm crashes through me, white-hot and consuming. A sudden rush escapes me, liquid and uncontrollable, as my body reacts to the overwhelming pleasure, soaking his skin and the sheets beneath us.
He groans, hips stuttering, and I feel him lose control, his rhythm faltering as he follows me into release.
“Jesus … Stormy … fuck … you’re perfect … so fucking perfect … look at you …”
His voice breaks, and he mumbles incoherent praise as he buries himself deep, his body trembling against mine.
He presses his face in my neck, and I hold him close, both of us trembling in the aftermath.
48
Ford
