That's enough.
He undresses me slowly, deliberately, like he's savoring every inch of skin he reveals. His hands are warm and capable, lingering at my hips, my thighs, my waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When he unhooks my bra and slides it off, his gaze darkens further.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on my skin.
He kisses down my neck, across my collarbone, down to my breasts. When he takes one nipple into his mouth, I gasp, arching into him, my hands clutching at his shoulders. He takes his time there, alternating between gentle and firm, until I'm writhing beneath him.
"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm asking for.
He knows.
He slides my jeans and underwear off in one smooth motion, and then his hands are everywhere—tracing the curve of my hip, the inside of my thigh, higher. When his fingers finally find where I'm already wet and ready for him, I cry out.
"Shh," he soothes, his mouth returning to mine. "I've got you."
He touches me with careful precision, learning what I like, what makes me gasp, what makes my hips lift off the bed. The pleasure builds steadily, wave after wave, until my thoughtsscatter and all I can do is hold on to him and trust where he's taking me.
When I come the first time, it's with his name on my lips, my body trembling as the orgasm crashes through me.
He doesn't stop. He gentles his touch, drawing it out, making it last until I'm boneless and gasping.
Then he pulls back just long enough to strip off his remaining clothes, and I get my first full look at him. He's beautiful in a rough, masculine way—broad shoulders, defined chest and abs, strong thighs. And he's hard, so hard it must be painful.
He reaches into the bedside table and pulls out a condom, tearing it open with his teeth.
"Let me," I say, sitting up.
He hands it to me, and I roll it on with shaking hands, taking my time, enjoying the sharp intake of breath he makes when I stroke him.
Then he's over me, his weight perfect and grounding, and I feel him at my entrance.
"Okay?" he asks one more time.
"More than okay," I whisper.
He pushes in slowly, giving me time to adjust. The stretch is perfect, the fullness exactly what I need. When he's fully seated, we both exhale, and he drops his forehead to mine.
"God, Merry," he groans.
Then he starts to move.
He sets a pace that's slow and deep, filling me completely with each thrust, each movement deliberate and sure. One hand braces beside my head, the other grips my hip, holding me steady as he rocks into me.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans again, the sound vibrating through both of us.
"Harder," I breathe, and he complies.
The pace changes, becomes more urgent. The bed creaks beneath us, and the room fills with the sounds of skin on skin, our mingled breathing, the soft cries I can't hold back.
The storm rages outside, the wind rattling the windows, but inside there's only heat and connection and the undeniable sense that this is exactly where I'm meant to be.
The pleasure builds again, tighter this time, more intense. I can feel it coiling in my belly, spreading outward.
"Rowan, I'm—"
"I know," he says, his voice strained. "Let go. I've got you."
I come apart with his name on my lips, my body trembling and clenching around him as the orgasm crashes through me, bigger and more intense than the first. He follows moments later, groaning my name, his hips stuttering as he finds his release.
