"Touch me. Please."
I slid my hand between her legs. She was already wet for me. "So ready."
"Always," she breathed, then seemed to realize what she'd said. Her eyes widened slightly.
"Always," I repeated, sliding two fingers inside her. "I like the sound of that."
I worked her slowly, curling my fingers to find that spot that made her moan, using my thumb on her clit while her face showed me everything—the way her lips parted, the flutter of her eyelashes, the exact moment pleasure overtook her.
"Don't close your eyes," I said. "Want to see you."
She met my gaze, holding it even as I built the pressure, and when she came it was while looking right at me, saying my name.
"Beautiful," I said, withdrawing my fingers. "Now I want to be inside you."
"Yes. Please."
I grabbed one of the few remaining condoms, rolled it on. When I pressed into her, we both groaned at the sensation. She was tender—I could tell by the small wince—but she locked her legs around my waist and pulled me deeper.
"You sore?" I asked, holding still.
"A little. But I want this." Her hands ran down my back. "Want you. Move. Please."
I did, setting a slow rhythm that had her gasping. Different from last night's urgency—this was about savoring every thrust, every sigh, every moment before reality came calling.
"You feel incredible," I told her, meaning it in every way. "Like you were made for me."
"Maybe I was." She drew me down for a kiss, her legs tightening around me. "Maybe we both were."
The words hit hard. Maybe we were—maybe all those months of bringing Dash to Story Time, watching her from a distance, wanting her, had been leading to this. To her beneath me, open and willing and mine.
I shifted the angle slightly, and she gasped. "There. Right there."
I kept the rhythm steady, hitting that spot with each thrust while I saw her getting close. Her breathing changed, quickened, and I knew she was almost there.
"Touch yourself," I said. "I want to see."
Her hand slid between us, fingers finding her clit, and the sight of it—her touching herself while I moved inside her—nearly undid me.
"That's it," I encouraged, fighting to hold on. "Let me see you come."
"Come with me," she gasped, her fingers moving faster. "Please, Shep. Together."
The plea broke me. I drove deeper, harder, and felt her clench around me as she came. The sensation triggered my own release, and I buried myself to the hilt, groaning her name as I pulsed inside her.
We stayed joined for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.
"I don't want to move," she whispered.
"Me neither."
But eventually I had to withdraw. I dealt with the condom, then gathered her back into my arms. She settled against my side, her head on my chest, her leg thrown over mine, skin still warm and damp.
"We should probably check the time," she murmured.
"Probably."
We didn't move. I stroked her back in lazy circles, feeling her heartbeat slow against my ribs. This was what I wanted—not just the sex, though that had been incredible. But this. The quiet aftermath. The intimacy of lying together.
