One kiss at a time, one touch, he undoes every last reservation left in the back of my mind. And this is how it’s supposed to be. Not forced. It’s more like we’re following what instinct is telling us to do. Like when he pulls my tank top out from my waistband. When his hands brush against my bare skin. I don’t even mind when he touches my scar on the way up my back so he can unhook my bra. Even that doesn’t bother me because he’s already shown me how little it matters. He told me I’m beautiful not because of it and not in spite of it. That it doesn’t define me.

I have that in mind as I unbutton his jeans, running the zipper over his already hard dick. When my palm brushes against it, he groans, his eyes closing, his throat working. It’s so much better this way, and I do it again and again, just for the sheer joy of watching his reaction and knowing I’m the reason for it.

“Fuck, I want you so bad,” he groans, opening his eyes to stare deep into mine. The look in them leaves me breathless. The intensity, the heat, the desire. Desire for me.

And then he kisses me again, again, rolling me on my back before burying his face in my neck, running his lips over my skin until I run my fingers through his hair, moaning helplessly. “So sweet,” he whispers, and something like joy flares to life in my heart. Every touch, every brush of his lips over me, brightens that joy like fuel on an already blazing fire.

And now nothing could stop me from being with him, from taking him inside me. I need to get rid of my clothes. I need to be as close to him as I can. “Get this off me,” I whisper, frantic, sitting up partway to pull off my tank top and bra. Immediately, he lowers his head to take one of my nipples in his mouth, sucking almost playfully, teasing me before releasing it with a popping sound. He does the same on the other side, then switches back and forth until I’m ready to scream. I’m so wet, my clit aching until it hurts.

“Touch me. Down there.” I fumble with my jeans, and he helps me unbutton and lower them over my raised hips and down my thighs. When he cups my pussy, rubbing his palm against the soaked fabric, I have to bite down on his shoulder to hold back what would be a scream otherwise. I can’t forget there are people on either side of the room, and it’s the middle of the day.