“No. I’m trying to make sure it will fit.” My eyes are still down, watching the way his cock comes away glistening.

“Baby, it’s going to fit. You were made for me.”

My eyes shoot up to his, but that’s right when his hips thrust up and he’s sinking into me right as I’m sliding down on him. I grip his forearms desperately. The feeling of fullness and not knowing how to respond to that comment draw my eyes back down, and we watch as my body stretches to take him.

“Look at you, Willa. You take me so well,” he grits out, voice sounding strained and gravelly.

I moan, feeling the way our bodies throb together. Skin on skin. My hands slide up to his shoulders as I push down the last couple of inches, taking his full length inside of me.

Cade sits up taller to press a kiss to the center of my chest, hands moving around my body to grip the globes of my ass. “Fuck, you feel like heaven. So hot and tight. Just for me.”

Just for me. My heart aches, and my arms wrap around his neck. I kiss the top of his head. This strong, stoic, honest, hardworking man—one whose hurt runs so deep that he’s lived several years questioning his worth. His value.

I hate it. I hate it for him. So, I rock my hips on him, hug him to my chest and say, “Just for you.” My nails graze over his shoulders and down his strong back. I bite on his ear again and nuzzle my cheek against his stubble. I love the feel of it rasping over my skin in perfect tandem with the rough pads of his fingers.

I lift and drop down, taking his full length in one go and hissing against his cheek at the slight burn. “Just for you,” I whisper again.

And I think I mean it.

Who the fuck knows what I’m doing? I’m positive that I don’t. Or I don’t most days. I go with the flow. I take my opportunities.

And God, an opportunity has never felt this right, so I don’t question it. I don’t overthink it. I give myself over to it.

To him.

I pull his head up to me and kiss him like it’s our last moment on earth. The energy in the small bedroom changes. What started off as rough and turned playful, has morphed into something more sensitive. But now we’re more frantic.

Our hands roam. He grips my ass, lifting me and pushing me back down. My legs shake and my head tips back. His beard scrapes across my chest. His lips work my nipples. My hands tug his hair.

We don’t talk.

But we don’t need to. Our bodies do the talking. Our kisses are wet, and messy, and perfectly imperfect.