How much I don’t want her to go.
How much I need her to stay.
If I can make her feel good enough, maybe she won’t leave.
If I can promise her endless orgasms, maybe she’ll stay.
If I’m justfucking enough, maybe she could love me.
Or like me enough to pretend to love me.
Forever.
Her breath hitches, and her channel squeezes hard once, then spasms around my cock.
“Too much,” she gasps.
I freeze, my balls so hard and tight that one wrong move could shatter them, my cock aching with the desperate need for release.
“Don’t stop,” she orders. “Like—it. Too much—like it.”
“You sure?”
She wiggles her hips, arches her neck, and moans as her pussy clenches around me again.
I pump once, twice, and then I’m coming too.
Physically.
Emotionally, I can’t let it out.
I can’t say it.
I can’t ask her for more.
I shouldn’twantmore.
But she’s my Goldie.
She’s been a bright spot in my world when I thought leaving England would mean the rest of my life spent in darkness.
I’ve lived in fear and uncertainty since I tore my rotator cuff.
But Goldie makes me feel free.
She brings me joy.
She brings me peace.
She makes it okay for me to beme.
The good and bad parts. The easy and the hard parts.
I collapse on top of her, her breast my pillow, panting and choked up and completely out of my element.
I love you.
I want to tell her.
