“I want you,” she pants. “All of you. Inside me.”
My brain completely gives up at that point. We both shed the last of our clothes. Touching her naked body is like the best feeling in the world. That is, until she shifts, climbing over me, straddling my hips, her weight settling in a way that makes my cock ache.
Skin on skin.
Heat everywhere.
“Look at you,” she purrs, hands sliding up my chest. “All mine.”
I buck up into her, the friction almost undoing me.
“Yours,” I agree, voice wrecked. My hands slide to her waist, holding her there. “Let me see you.”
She bites her lip, eyes fluttering closed as she rocks against me.
“Slow,” she says, guiding me. “I want to feel it.”
I force myself to obey. Touch her like this. Take my time. When I finally slide my cock into her warm pussy, I nearly come undone.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “This feels incredible. You are incredible.”
Everything after that blurs into heat and sound and the way her body responds to mine: shifting under my hands, moving with me like we were built for the same rhythm. The way she opens to me, the way every movement seems to draw us closer together, feels less like discovery and more like remembering something we somehow already knew.
When she finally comes apart, gripping me, crying out my name, she takes me with her, my control snapping completely. All goes black when the orgasm hits me and I wish the moment would last forever.
I hold her through it. Through the shaking. Through the aftermath. Through the quiet that follows, heavy and intimate and real.
This isn’t just sex.
It’s the way she looks at me afterwards. The way she sees me.
And the realisation, settling deep in my chest, that I don’t want to go anywhere at all.
I wake up before I mean to.
Christa is curled against me, warm and solid, her back fitted perfectly along my chest like this is a position we’ve practised. My arm is draped over her waist, my hand settled where it decided to stay overnight.
I don’t move.
I wait for the familiar rush. The post-event analysis. The spiral.
Nothing happens.
She shifts slightly, makes a soft sound in her sleep, then tucks herself closer without opening her eyes. Like this is expected. Like this is safe.
Eventually, she wakes completely, blinking slowly, hair everywhere. She looks up at me and grins without hesitation.
“Morning,” she says.
“Morning,” I reply.
We lie there for a moment. No scrambling. No sudden politeness. Just ease. Her leg hooked over mine. My hand still warm at her waist.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah. You?”
“Yeah,” I say, and mean it.
