“What are you doing?” he whimpers.
“Showing you.” My voice is steady even though my hands are shaking. “That I love tasting you, too.”
I drag more of his cum up to my breasts. Rub it over my nipples. Watch his pupils blow wide.
“You remember that night?” I ask. “When you ate me in your bathroom? After I thought Ipeed on you?”
He nods. Can’t seem to form words.
“You made me feel so safe. So cherished. Like nothing I could do would gross you out or make you love me less.”
Wait.
Did I just say love?
His expression shifts. Something vulnerable breaking through.
But I keep going because I’m already in too deep.
“I want you to feel that, too.” I slide my slick hands down my stomach. Between my legs. Mixing everything together. “Want you to know that I’m not grossed out. That I think it’s hot. That I love how much you want me.”
There it is again.
Love.
Fuck.
“Jess.” He catches my wrists. Gentle but firm. “Stop.”
“Why?” I’m breathless. Turned on beyond belief even though I just came three times.
“Because if you keep doing that I’m going to fuck you on this rug without any control left and you deserve better.”
“What if I don’t want better?” I challenge. “What if I want you exactly like this? Messy and desperate and mine?”
“Mine,” he corrects. Possessive. Final.
“Yours,” I agree. “But you’remine, too.”
Something in his expression cracks. He hauls me up and kisses me. Deep and desperate and tasting like me and us and everything we’ve been dancing around for weeks.
“Need you,” he breathes against my mouth. “Now.”
“Yes.” Is all I can manage.
He reaches frantically for his discarded jeans. Pulls out his wallet. Extracts a condom.
I vaguely wonder if a condom even matters now, given that his cum is basically all over me.
But I say nothing.
Instead, I watch him roll it on. Watch his hands shake slightly.
And then he’s settling between my legs. Lining himself up.
He pushes in. Slow and steady and so perfectly filling that I forget to breathe.
“Fuck.” The word tears from Marco’s throat like fractured stone, hot and ragged against the damp skin of my neck. His hips stutter, buried to the hilt, as if my body is a vise he can’t escape.
