He lifts up on one elbow, forehead to mine,
hand at the back of my neck,
his breathing’s a mess.
His eyes drop, watching me grind into him.
Hotter. Harder. Deeper. Wetter.
“Jesus fuck—gonna fuckin’ lose it—you feel too fuckin’ good?—”
Then his head tips back, neck exposed.
I kiss his throat, open-mouthed.
I’m soaking and aching and on fire?—
I can feel it climbing.
He’s dripping and shaking and gone?—
I can feel it coming.
And all I can think is—not like this.
It’s not enough.
I need him full, I need him deep.
The onlyenoughwill be him buried inside me.
I drop my head to his and grip his cock tight.
He’s drenched and fuck-weighted andMine.
I guide the tip of him to my opening.
Hover right at the edge. Lined up.
“Don’t move,” I say.
“I’m not movin’.”
“Don’t move?—”
A breath punches out of him.
“Madò, baby… I ain’t fuckin’ movin’.”
But it’s my grip that won’t move.
My hips won’t drop.
It’s all mental.
Like piercing your own ear,
your body flinches before it hurts.
