"I missed you," I whisper. "I missed your stupid dimples and your dirty mouth."
He grins, that wicked, boyish grin that ruins me. "Good."
He reaches down and rips his t-shirt over his head in that sexy way guys can, tossing it aside. "Now let me remind you exactly why you came back."
He doesn't wait for an answer. He dips his head and latches onto my breast, his tongue swirling over my nipple, and I arch off the mattress with a cry that is equal parts relief and surrender. His mouth is hot, wet, and relentless. He sucks the sensitive peak into his mouth, biting down just hard enough to send a jolt of electricity through my body. My hands tangle in his hair, gripping the short strands, trying to pull him closer, deeper.
"Fuck, you taste good," he groans against my skin, the vibration of his voice humming through my chest. "Better than I remembered. Sweeter."
He moves lower, his tongue tracing a wet, scorching path down my sternum, over my stomach. His hands are everywhere,kneading my hips, squeezing my thighs, leaving hot brands on my skin that I know will turn into bruises tomorrow. I want them. I want to look in the mirror and see his mark.
"Please," I gasp, my hips bucking involuntarily as his breath ghosts over the curls covering my pussy.
"Please what, Demi?" He looks up, his hazel eyes dark, pupils blown so wide the gold flecks are swallowed by black. That cocky, dimpled grin is back, but it’s edged with a predator’s hunger. "Please stop? Please go?"
"Please fuck me," I demand, my voice breaking. "Stop playing."
"Oh, I’m not playing, baby. I’m worshipping."
He grabs my thighs and shoves them wide, settling further between my legs. He doesn't dive in. He just looks. He stares at my pussy like it’s the only thing worth seeing in the world, his gaze heavy and starved.
"Look at you," he whispers, reaching out to drag a thumb through my slick folds. He pulls it away, showing me the glistening proof of my need. "So fucking wet. You’ve been leaking for me since you stepped out of that shower, haven't you?"
"Maybe," I hiss, trying to keep my bratty edge, but it’s hard when my entire body is throbbing for more touch, more him.
He chuckles darkly and lowers his head. When his tongue hits my clit, my vision whites out. There’s no teasing now as he devours. He licks me with broad, flat strokes, humming against my swollen flesh as he tastes me. My heels dig into the mattress, my head thrashing back and forth. It’s too much and not enough. I need friction. I need weight.
"Marcus!" I moan his name loudly, my hands scrabbling for purchase on the sheets.
He sucks me hard, one last punishing pull that has me sobbing, then rears back leaving me gasping for more. Hereaches for his jeans, shoves them down, and frees his cock. It’s thick, angry, and leaking pre-cum. It bobs with his heartbeat, demanding attention.
"You want it?" he growls, positioning himself at my entrance. The head of his cock rubs against my clit, teasing, taunting.
"Yes," I whimper. "Put it in."
"Tell me who it belongs to."
I glare up at him through my lashes. "It’s mine."
He laughs, a rough, barking sound, and slams into me. I scream as he stretches me, filling me so completely that for a second, I can’t breathe. It’s a violation of the emptiness I’ve been living with for weeks. He fills every hollow space, every crack in my armor. He holds still for a moment, letting me adjust, his forehead resting against mine, our breath mingling in harsh pants.
"You’re right," he whispers against my lips. "It is yours. It’s always been yours."
Then he starts to move. He withdraws almost all the way, leaving just the tip in, before snapping his hips forward and burying himself to the hilt again. The friction is exquisite agony. My inner muscles clamp down on him, milking him, trying to keep him there.
"Fuck, Demi," he groans, his composure cracking. "You’re so tight. You feel so fucking good."
He picks up the pace, his thrusts getting harder, faster. The bed frame hits the wall with a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that matches the slapping of our skin. I wrap my legs around his waist, tipping my hips up, pulling him deeper, grinding my clit against his pubic bone with every thrust. It’s messy. It’s frantic. It’s not the slow, sensual making love of a romance novel. It’s two people who have been starving, finally getting fed.
I rake my nails down his back, feeling the ridges of his muscles bunch and flex. He grunts, biting my neck, his hands gripping my hair to tilt my head back.
"Look at me," he commands.
I force my eyes open. He’s watching me, his face twisted in a mask of pure pleasure and possession.
"I’m not going anywhere," he vows, thrusting harder. "I’m right here. Feel me?"
"Yes," I cry out. "Yes, yes!"
