Doesn’t matter how many times I ran into danger as an EMT.
Doesn’t matter how many times I slay metaphorical dragons for my daughter.
This?
This is agony.
Admitting that I’m afraid I’ll be a disappointment at sex is far more torture than simply being afraid.
“Your pace,” she whispers back. “Whatever you want. However you want it.”
I lift my head again and look down at her. “Donot—ever—say that to any other man.”
She grins. “Why not? New adventure every time.”
“Fuck,” I groan, and then I’m kissing her again.
Because I need to.
I have to.
She’s the air I’m gasping after surfacing in an ocean of responsibility and fear and pressure and everything that my life has been for the past near-decade.
She peels my shirt up my back, and I shift enough to tear it the rest of the way off, then I’m kissing her again.
Kissing and rolling so she’s beside me, so I can unbutton this silky pink top one-handed while she rolls her pelvis against mine, driving me mad with how much I want to feel her bare pussy against my cock.
I get her buttons opened and push her shirt off her shoulder, and then?—
“Fuck, I love your breasts.” I push her onto her back again and feast on her chest, palming one plump, perfect mound and thumbing her nipple while I suck on the other.
They’re perfect.
So damn perfect.
And the gaspy moans and the way she’s grabbed a fistful of my hair to hold me there?—
I love knowing she’s enjoying this too.
That she wants me.
She does, doesn’t she?
She wants me?
I’m not just convenient?
“Oh my god, Heath, don’t stop,” she gasps.
She slips a hand under her pajama bottoms, and?—
My cock surges, threatening to lose it.
She’s touching her pussy while I play with her breasts.
I grab her wrist. “Mine,” I growl.
“Just—feels—so good,” she gasps. “Want—need—to get off.”
