His breath catches,
his hand shooting to my wrist again.
“Fuck. Okay.” He laughs, breathy.
“So you really ain’t stoppin’, huh?”
Each word grabbed by the throat and yanked out of him
as he leans over me, wrecked.
My head shakes.
His nods, and he swallows. “If you do—swear to God—I’ll fuckin’ blow again.”
My smile rises.
His comes next, a crease deepening between his brows. “I'm losin' my fuckin' mind over you, and you're smilin' about it.”
“Mmhm,” I hum, grabbing his jaw,
my mouth crashing into his grinning lips.
I don’t stop.
I want him to blow again
and again
and again.
The buckleclinks.
The buttonpops.
The zipper slides.
And then…
I slow down.
I take my time…
my hands slipping under the hem of his shirt… fingertips grazing the hot, bare skin of his abdomen.
His breath catches for half a second,
then escapes in pieces.
His stomach jumps under my touch,
muscles tightening, flexing.
Like hands on his skin feels foreign to him.
He grabs my cheek,
pushes his fingers through my hair.
