She leaned in, her voice a whisper against his lips. "I need you."
His hands flexed on her hips, thumbs brushing gentle circles against her skin. "Then take what you need."
The permission settled her. She lifted slowly, feeling him slide almost all the way out, then sank back down. The friction pulled a gasp from her throat, pleasure sparking through her nerves.
She did it again. Slower this time. Testing. Finding her rhythm. Every movement was hers to control, hers to choose. Her body responded, heat building with each roll of her hips.
His breath came harder, hands tightening on her waist. But he didn't take over. Didn't rush her. He let her set the pace, let her take what she needed.
Rachel's confidence grew with each movement. The pleasure built, pushing out the fear, replacing it with want. With need. With the raw, primal connection between them.
She took control of the rhythm, moving faster now. His fingers dug into her hips, his breathing ragged against her neck.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You feel fucking perfect."
Her nails raked down his chest, dragging across muscle and scar. He shuddered beneath her. She moved again, teasing him with every grind, every shift of her weight, keeping him right at the edge.
His head fell back, breath uneven. When his eyes snapped open, they locked onto hers, wild and hungry and raw.
"Faster," he ordered.
Rachel obeyed.
Her rhythm quickened, each motion sharper, more urgent. The friction tore through her in waves. Her thighs trembled with every movement, the heat between them building into desperation.
His hands slid down to her ass, gripping her firmly, guiding her movements now. His hips began to meet her rhythm, rising to meet each downward stroke. The angle shifted, deepening, and Rachel felt it everywhere, the friction, the stretch, the fullness.
"Fuck, baby," he rasped. "You feel so good."
She gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The pressure was building inside her, coiling tighter with each movement. But she wasn't there yet. Not close enough.
She changed her angle, grinding down against him on each stroke, seeking more friction where she needed it most. The new movement pulled a moan from deep in her chest.
His breathing grew ragged, his chest rising and falling hard beneath her hands. "That's it," he muttered. "Take what you need, baby."
Rachel's thighs began to burn from the effort, muscles trembling. Sweat slicked their skin where their bodies met. The afternoon air felt cool against her back, a stark contrast to the heat building between them.
She could feel him pulsing inside her, could feel his restraint in the tension of his body, the way his fingers dug into her hips like he was holding on by a thread. He was close. She could tell by the way his breath came in short, harsh bursts against her neck, by the tremor running through his muscles.
But he was waiting. Holding back. For her.
"Logan," she breathed, her rhythm faltering as the pleasure intensified. "I need—"
"I know, baby." His hand moved from her hip, sliding up her side, her ribs, until his thumb found her breast. He circled her nipple with maddening patience, the touch light, teasing.
Rachel arched into it, a whimper escaping her lips. The dual sensations, him inside her, his hand on her breast, sent sparks through her nervous system. The pressure built higher, tighter, but still not enough.
"Please," she whispered, not even sure what she was asking for.
He understood anyway. His mouth found her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His hand tightened on her breast, thumb and finger pinching gently. The pleasure-pain pulled a gasp from her throat.
"Keep going," he urged. "Don't stop."
Rachel found her rhythm again, moving faster now, chasing the release building inside her. Her nails scraped over his shoulders, down his chest, leaving red marks across his skin. He shuddered beneath her, a groan rumbling in his chest.
"Just like that," he rasped. "You're gonna make me lose my mind."
The words sent a thrill through her. The knowledge that she was affecting him this much, that he was barely holding on, it was intoxicating. Empowering. She moved with more confidence, more purpose, grinding down hard with each stroke.
