He smirks. “To me ravishing your pussy.”
My thighs clench in anticipation as he settles himself between my legs.
One hand grips my waist, the other pins my hand, interlacing our fingers above my head.
Feeling him at my entrance, I stutter on a breath.
“Let me in, my flower girl. My cock has missed its home,” he says hoarsely, inflaming my desire.
The head slips inside, and my pussy sucks him in greedily, stretching to accommodate his girth. He thrusts inside of me in one delicious go, and bottoming out, my eyes roll back in their sockets—the fullness is maddening, the pleasure is exquisite, and emotions run even higher.
It’s a slow, passionate rhythm as our bodies join, becoming one.
Never losing eye contact and skin on skin, we kiss, making love—unhurried like we have all the time in the world.
“I missed this,” I undulate under him, trailing kisses along his jaw.
“Me too,” he groans, half in pleasure, half in agony.
Our bodies mold together, moving in a sinuous rhythm as we tangle in the sheets.
Every time he rocks his hips, I meet him—thrust for thrust.
He hits the place inside of me that makes me a whimpering mess.
I tremble every time he thrusts inside of me, reaching a place inside of me that drives me feral with rapture. It must feel just as good for him because his chest expands with his groans.
“I’m close,” I moan, my nails scratching down his back, letting myself fall because he’s there to catch me.
He bites into my jaw, stirring another moan from me. His desperation only makes me burn hotter for him.
Pumping into me in a frenzied rhythm, his muscles tense, his breathing becoming fast and shallow. “Come for me, my flower girl.”
Eyes locked and joined in the most intimate way, it feels like we transcend the physical, connecting on the deepest emotional level. A cord threads around our beings, binding our souls. What a surreal experience.
Heart racing, we chase the release, coming together—me on a long cry, he on a groan. The messy and violent explosion offers such a thrilling high.
Our hearts beat a frantic rhythm, and we stay locked in our embrace, catching our breaths.
“Damn, flower girl.”
I giggle in response, and he slips out, his cock glistening with the proof of our lovemaking.
Holding himself on his palms, he kisses my lips, down my jaw, throat, pecking each nipple and lower down the valley of my breasts to my belly button and even lower.
He slaps my thighs open, and our release spills out of me.
“Have you any idea how damn beautiful your pussy looks after I fucked it?” he says, awe laced in his husky voice.
With two fingers, he scoops his cum mixed with my juices up and rubs my pussy lips with it, trailing the sticky liquid over my stomach and over my nipples. He paints me in his cum, branding me as his. His bursts of territorial claims only make me burn hotter for him.
He presses his fingers to his mouth, then to mine. “Taste us together.”
I do, lost in raw carnality, sucking greedily from his fingers the remnants of our release.
He smashes his lips on mine, swiping his tongue over my lips to lick the rest. Just like that, desire blossoms in my belly.
“How do we taste?” he asks through kisses.
