Not the sharp shock of last night, but enough to make me hold my breath.
Weston stills instantly.
“Look at me.”
I do.
His forehead rests against mine, his eyes locked on mine while he eases in deeper by inches, giving me time to take him.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper, and this time I mean it.
He groans softly when his cock is fully inside me, like being buried in me is almost more than he can stand.
I stroke my fingers through his hair. “You okay?”
His eyes burn. “Barely.”
Then he starts to move.
Slow at first. Deep, too.
Every thrust feels heavier this morning. More intimate. More possessive. Like he is not just making love to me, he is staking some quiet claim with every push of his hips.
I wrap my legs around him and that seems to finish whatever control he had left.
“Fuck,” he mutters into my neck.
Yes.
That.
Exactly that.
His rhythm gets rougher. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make the bed start creaking under us while the storm pounds the windows and his body drives into mine with a force that turns every thought in my head to static.
I cling to his shoulders and meet him as well as I can.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
His hand slides under my thigh, lifting it higher, angling me for something deeper that makes me cry out.
“There,” he says, voice rough. “That’s where I want you.”
The filthy approval in his voice goes straight through me.
“So good,” he grits out. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart.”
I moan and clutch at him harder.
His mouth finds my breast again, sucking hard enough to make me arch while his hips keep pounding into me, and the combination of it, his mouth, his body, his words, the storm, all of it builds too fast.
“I’m close,” I gasp.
“I know.” His hand slips between us, rubbing me tight and wet and perfect. “Come on. Give it to me.”
