“Yes, Dean, that’s it,” she says, her voice ragged and needy as her lips graze my temple. More urgently, she says, “Keep doing that.” It’s the closest she’s come to begging me for anything, and I’m hell-bent on giving her exactly what she needs.

I thrust upward, meeting her each time she bears down.

“Perfect,” she says, her smoky brown eyes pinning me with their intensity.

The way she rides me is so damn glorious I want to bottle it and take it everywhere I go. But that isn’t all. I want Solange. Her sounds. Her touch. Everything that comes with this.

I can’t stop touching her either. She’s strong and soft, and I’d happily make massaging her my only pastime if she’d let me. I also wish I could do this all day. But I can’t. I really can’t. To ward off my impending orgasm, I resort to an old and rarely necessary standby: mumbling a piece I’ve committed to memory.

She pulls back, a sex-drunk expression on her face. “Are you humming?”

I blurt out, “Reciting something.”

“Why?” she says, her voice tinged with amusement.

“Helps me last.”

Grunting my responses is all I can do; the fewer words the better.

“Let me hear it,” she says. “I grind. You rhyme.”

“Later. I promise. Just . . . It’s probably more than you need to hear.”

“I’m going to hold you to it,” she says, collapsing against me. Now our chests are pressed together, and her head is resting on my shoulder. The warmth of her skin, the coconut scent in her hair, it’s an intoxicating combination that heightens the pleasure of being inside her.

We’re a tight fit, and she knows just when to contract around me to make the fit even tighter. “Hang on, I just . . . fuck, Solange.”

She draws back, her eyes so heavy they’re almost closed, then she takes my hand and pulls it between her legs. “I need you to finish what you started in that stairwell.”

The thought of touching her there and making her come against my hand makes my heart race even harder. Without hesitation, I massage her folds, then tease her with a featherlight pass over her clit. She tenses and chases the sensation, desperate for more, but I don’t want us to get to the punch line just yet, so I skim her opening, tracing a finger over the places where my cock meets her pussy.

She lets out a long moan, and it’s as though the sound is vibrating against my dick.

“You’re deliciously wet,” I tell her, my lips drifting over her neck and jaw. “I wish I could taste it.”

“Oh God, yes,” she says as she wriggles on my lap. “I want that too.”