My body comes down, blanketing him as my hands rest on either side of his head. He’s such a fucking beautiful man. It sometimes hurts how beautiful he is. His hair is thick and black as night. Running my fingers through it feels like touching silk. His eyes are full of depth, a beautiful shade of deep brown, and they’re surrounded by a curtain of thick, black eyelashes that look too perfect to be real.

His brows are thick, but not too thick. They frame his face, which is made up of sharp lines and angles, flawlessly. His beard has gotten fuller over the years. Slightly longer. He has a few salt and pepper strands mixed in with the black, but not many. He wears his age well.

He’s a work of art. I could stare at him all day, every day, for the rest of my life, and it still wouldn’t feel like enough.

I lower my head, pressing my lips down on his pink, slightly pouty ones. He opens for me automatically, as if he doesn’t even have to think about it. When my tongue dips inside and tastes him—mint and tobacco—he sighs into my mouth, and goosebumps break out all over my skin at the soft sound.

We easily get lost to one another, lost in the kiss, the passion. When his tongue strokes against mine, I forget the world around us. It’s just him and me, in this moment together. And honestly? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

It doesn’t take long for us both to become painfully hard, hips rutting into one another, and for a while, we don’t do anything more than that—making out on the bed and dry humping like we’re teenagers. We’re both panting, and my skin feels electric. Everywhere he touches feels like a direct line to my aching dick.

Wrapping his legs around me, he flips us so he’s on top. He gazes at me with such an intensity it gives me chills. It’s like he can see directly into my soul, and hell, he probably can. It’s always felt that way, and at this point, it truly wouldn’t surprise me.

“Are you okay?” he asks sheepishly. “Is this where you want to be?” His deep voice rumbles through my body.

“Yes,” I breathe. “I’m sure.” And I am.

“I don’t want you to wake up and regret the whole thing…” He leaves out the “like last time,” but I know it’s there.