When I turn back, my hand stills mid-air.
She's propped on one elbow, hair spilling across the pillow, and her other hand is between her thighs. Two fingers sliding through her own slick heat, slow and unhurried, like she's keeping herself warm while she waits. Her eyes are locked on me—not my face. Lower. Tracking every inch of me with a focus so sharp it borders on predatory.
Her fingers circle her clit once, lazily, and her lips part on a soft exhale.
My hands are actually unsteady. That's new.
"Started without me," I manage.
"You were taking too long." Her fingers dip lower, pressing inside herself—just the tips—and she lets out a sound that makes the blood drain from my brain.
I'm on her before the last word lands.
Then I step between her legs where they hang off the edge of the bed. Lift her knees. Press them up and back, guiding her legs onto my shoulders. The angle tilts her hips and opens her completely—exposed, trusting, mine.
"Oh—" Her hands fly to the sheets, gripping fistfuls of linen. I haven't even entered her yet. Just the position, the vulnerability of it, has her breathing ragged.
I line myself up. Press forward—just the head, just enough to feel resistance give way to slick, devastating heat.
Her back arches off the mattress. "West—that's—"
"Too much?" I still. Every muscle locked.
"No." She shakes her head, hair fanning across the white sheets. "Just—I can feel youeverywherelike this. You're so deep—"
I sink in another inch. Then another. Watchingher face transform with every fraction—lips parting wider, eyes losing focus, the tendons in her neck going taut.
"Breathe," I say. Because she's forgotten to.
She exhales in a shudder and I sink the rest of the way. Buried completely. The angle is deeper than I've been inside her before, the tight grip of her body around every inch making my vision blur at the edges.
"Again," she breathes. "Move faster—please—"
I pull back. Slow. The drag of her inner walls against me is almost unbearable—hot, slick friction that sends heat crawling up my spine. Then I thrust in.
Her moan is broken. Raw. Her hands twist in the sheets and her breasts shift with the impact, nipples tight, flushed pink.
"Like that?" I do it again. Harder.
"Yes—ohhell—yes—"
I set a rhythm. Deep and steady. Watching myself disappear into her, the slick pull each time I withdraw and the way her body draws me back. I love the way her body yields and then grips, pulling me back in each time I withdraw like her body refuses to let me go.
Her breasts move with every thrust. Full, heavy, bouncing with each impact—and I can't look away. Can't think about anything except how they look right now, flushed and swaying, nipples tight and dusky pink against her skin.
I reach down. Cup one roughly—too roughly, maybe, but I'm past caring. She's looks wanton and beautiful like this. My fingers sink into the soft weight of her and I groan, a low, guttural sound that doesn't belong to the man I was eight days ago.
"These," I rasp, squeezing, watching the flesh spill between my fingers. "You have no idea what you do to me."
She’s gasping and way she’s looking at me with a smile and open mouth that goes straight to my cock. I feel myself harden even more inside her, thickening until she gasps at the stretch.
"You feel that?" I thrust deeper. My hand kneads her breast with the kind of desperate hunger I stopped pretending I could control. "That's what watching you does to me."
"West—" Her voice is barely there.
I lean forward, changing the angle, and take her nipple into my mouth. Not gentle. I suck hard, teeth grazing, tongue circling rough and fast while my hips keep driving intoher. She cries out—a sharp, keening sound—and her back bows off the bed, pushing more of herself into my mouth.
I switch to the other breast. Bite down just enough to feel her walls clamp around me so tight I see white.
