I thought he’d nestle himself where he was but felt the heat of him over me just before he kissed me, lips salty and insistent. But only for a moment—he wanted something else.

My hands were in his hair again, drawn there like they were meant to live in the lush tresses of darkness. I watched through slanted lids as he closed his eyes and paid homage to my breasts, his fingers tracing the curve, cupping their weight, testing it in discovery. Lips closed over my pale nipple, the sweet pinch of his gentle teeth, the sweep of his tongue. And then, down he went again.

I mewled, not wanting foreplay or fingers or tongues. I wanted him, every single inch of him inside every space I contained.

He paused at the sound, slowing his pace, teasing my center with one, broad fingertip. “You’re impatient,” he rasped.

“Please,” I whispered as he lowered his torso, settling between my legs. “It’s been too long. I don’t need all that.”

“I disagree,” he said, hot breath against my core, palm spread over the flat of my stomach, legs spread and resting on his broad shoulders.

And the moment his lips closed over me, I disagreed too.

My awareness shrank to the point where he was latched to me, my nerves zinging toward the point of contact. Heat in my thighs, pooled low in my belly, a drawing from deep within me with every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers. My hips flexed into him, against him, and he met every move with equal and opposite force.

Equals and opposites.

He gave, and I took. And as he gave, he took his pleasure—the rumble of his moan into me, the tremble of his shoulders, the blind, wild intensity in which he shifted his jaw, gripped my thigh, tasted me as if it were for himself far more than for me. As if he were the lucky one and not me, which was the boldest of lies.

It was a slow worship of my body, exaltation delivered by his tongue and hands. The tight drum of my heart battered my ribs with every second. My lungs locked, neck extending in offering. My back arched, thighs taut and shaking. His mouth—his mouth—with its own design, its own directive. The gathering of my senses to the place where we were joined. With a hard, deep draw, I came like thunder, a dark, rumbling division of self, a separation and conjoining at once.