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I groaned against his mouth when he tugged my shorts down and then tossed them aside.
My legs spread further without the fabric over them, and I lowered my hands to his erection.
He growled into my mouth when I gripped his length through the fabric, and when I pushed his shorts down his hips, he lifted his ass—and me with him—long enough to tug them down.
And down.
And down.
His hot erection met my clit, and I moaned. His fingers latched onto my hips as he dragged me against him, making me pant.
“You’re mine?” he growled at me. It was still a question, though his fingers were sliding down and digging into my ass as he continued grinding me on his hardness, creating delicious, delicious friction.
My mind went back to that first poem in his book.
I was shitty with names. With facts, too.
But quotes and poems seemed to embed themselves in my heart, in my mind.
My breaths were coming out rapidly as I reached between us. He stopped moving—nearly stopped breathing, too. I pushed his tip against my entrance, and lowered myself down just a little.
The pressure was intense as he stretched me, as I waited to adjust, but that didn’t stop me from repeating his poem back to him—and changing it, as I did.
My breath brushed his lips, our eyes locked and his body trembling with the effort it took him to remain still, to let me set the pace.
“I’m yours
I whisper,
My breath on your face.
I’m yours,
I bellow,
My scent on your skin.
I’m yours,
I snarl,
Heart pounding in my chest
I’m yours,
I roar,
Forever and more.”
With every line,I sank further.
And further.
And further.
And when he was buried completely inside me, stretching me so tightly and hitting every damn nerve I possessed, the poem was over.
Yet we were only just beginning.
