Page 94 of One Adult, Please

"I want to feel you inside me."

He kisses me again, deep and slow, and his hand slides between us, testing, teasing, and I'm already embarrassingly slick.

"You're wet," he says against my mouth.

"You're observant."

"I like it."

"Good. I like you liking anything about me. I like you existing."

He laughs, and then his hand is gone and the head of his cock is nudging at my pussy, warm and blunt. "Ready?" he asks.

"I've been ready since you took off your vest. I've been ready since the moment I met you, probably."

Whatever I was going to say next disappears because he’s pushing inside me. Opening me up, stretching me. I gasp. My nails dig into his shoulders. My forehead drops to his and I breathe him in.

The sound I make is embarrassingly high. A little ah-ah-ah that I can't control, that matches the rhythm of him sinking deeper.

"Grace." His voice is wrecked. "You feel…"

"Don't say tight. Everyone says tight. I'm not a jar of pickles."

The movement of his laugh pushes him deeper inside me.

"You feel like home," he says. "You feel like somewhere I've been looking for my whole life and didn't know existed until now."

"Okay, that's… that's better than tight. That's significantly better than tight."

I kiss him, hard and desperate, and I start to move. I rise up on my knees, letting him slide almost all the way out, and then I sink back down.

The sensation. God. The way he fills me completely.

I do it again. Slower this time, drawing it out, feeling every millimeter of friction, every ridge and vein, every place where his body meets mine and becomes something new.

"Oh," I say. "Oh, that's... you're..."

He thrusts up as I sink down, and the angle shifts, and there's that perfect spot deep inside me. "There," he says, because he felt the way my body clenched around him. "Right there. I'm going to stay there."

"You better."

He keeps hitting that spot, over and over, a rhythm that builds and builds until I can't think, can't speak, can only feel. My inner walls are fluttering around him. His breath catches and his grip tightens.

"Not yet," I manage. "I want… I want to feel this longer."

"Take what you need."

I slow down. Let the tension ebb instead of cresting. I rock against him, small movements, circular, savoring the drag of him inside me, the way my body is stretched around him, the heat building low in my belly like a slow-burning fire instead of an explosion.

"You're in control," he says, and his voice is shot through with need. "I'm yours."

Those two words hit me harder than any amount of dirty talk could. I start moving faster.

The slow burn ignites. The fire catches. I'm riding him now, full strokes, my thighs burning, my breath coming in gasps, and he's matching me, thrust for thrust, his hands on my hips holding me steady while I chase the wave that's building.

He rolls his hips upward, experimental, and my whole body lights up.

His hands guide my hips, setting a rhythm, and I follow it, rise and fall, my thighs burning because I don't do cardio and this is definitely cardio.