This morning, I take my time.
I map every inch of her body with my hands and mouth—the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist, the inside of her thigh. I find the places that make her gasp, the touches that make her arch, the rhythm that has her saying my name over and over again.
"Nate, please?—"
"Not yet." I kiss my way down her stomach, lower, and she makes a sound that's almost a whimper. "I've waited too long for this. I'm not rushing."
"You're killing me."
"Good, now you know how it felt for me, seeing you with him."
When I finally put my mouth where she needs it most, she comes apart so beautifully I almost lose control myself. But I hold back, draw it out, make her come twice before I even think about my own release.
"Inside me," she finally gasps, pulling at my shoulders. “Now. I need you inside me."
“Do you?” I ask, even though I'm already positioning myself, already trembling with the effort of restraint.
“Yes, fuck. Now. Nate. Please."
“Well, because you asked so nicely.”
I slide into her slowly, her face registering the exact moment pleasure overtakes everything else. She's so warm, so tight, so perfect that I have to pause, breathe, remind myself not to just lose it immediately.
“Fuck,” she mutters, wrapping her legs around my waist.
“That’s exactly what I’m about to do.”
And I do.
We find a rhythm that's both familiar and new—her body remembering mine even after all this time, my body remembering exactly how to make her fall apart. Every thrust drives me deeper, every gasp and moan from her mouth makes me want to mark her, claim her, make sure she knows she's mine.
"Say it," I growl against her neck, pace increasing. "Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," she gasps.
"Again."
"Yours, Nate. Only yours."
When she comes this time, it's with my name on her lips and her nails digging into my back, and the feeling of her tightening around me is enough to send me over the edge too.
We collapse together, breathing hard, skin slick with sweat,and I'm pretty sure I've never felt more complete in my entire life.
Later—muchlater, after round four and a shower that almost turned into round five—we get dressed.
Coffee. Breakfast. Normal things.
The kind of morning that feels almost domestic, and that realization this is all I want, hits me square in the chest. I’d die a very happy fucking man if this is how my mornings looked until the end of time.
She's wearing one of my shirts, and seeing her in my clothes does something primal to my brain that makes me want to keep her here, naked, in my bed for the foreseeable future.
"You have to stop looking at me like that," she says, catching my expression.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to drag me back to bed."
"I do want to drag you back to bed."
