“Me too.” I glide my mouth across hers leisurely and softly, working her up, making her body beg for more. I’m lazy as I kiss her. Gentle, slow, and infuriatingly unrushed. But I don’t need to rush. I have to keep reminding myself. She’s seen the light.

And with that thought, I release her wrists and work my touch down her torso, feeling her writhe, buck, squirm. My tongue rolls languidly through her mouth, corner to corner, her moans constant, her palms on my arse trying to instigate my movements. She gets her way. I lift, letting my dick fall into place. “I completely lose myself in you, lady,” I whisper, surrendering her lips so I can watch her as I dive slowly and deeply into her. The vision. The pleasure on her strained face. The whimpers of indulgence. Her hands leave my arse and land on my back, her eyes closing. Oh, no, no, no.

I hold back from setting the pace, the willpower draining my lungs of air, every muscle locking down. Not until she’s looking at me. I’m not moving until she looks at me.

“Look at me, Ava,” I grate, my teeth about ready to pop from my harsh bite.

Thank God, she listens, giving me her eyes, and I gaze into them, feeling nothing but wonder. Real. This is all real.

She wants me to move, her hips flexing in invitation, and I sigh and talk my muscles into loosening, retreating from the heat of her pussy and driving forward slowly. The friction is a blissful torture.

“I love sleepy sex with you,” I whisper, hoarsely.

She answers by thrusting upward, and I gulp, fighting to regain control when my dick jerks its delight.

“Is that good, Ava?” I keep our eyes locked, and she has no problem maintaining this level of intimacy.

“Yes.”

“Faster?” I ask.

“No, just like this, please, just stay like this.”

Good answer, and highly satisfying, because she’s consumed by this moment too. Now, this is making love. And that is exactly what I’m doing. Literally. Creating love. Fuck me, what I felt last night wasn’t a whimsical throw-away thought. As I feared, it was a very real, very serious thought. I always believed it would be impossible to love again. Now I feel it’s impossible not to love this woman. Cupid has rammed his fucking arrow through my heart, the sadistic bastard, and reminded me that I do, in fact, have one.

I feel frustration grip me, and I try in vain to shake it away. Ava’s legs come up and circle me, her touch feeling like it’s getting lighter.

Love.

Should I cut my losses now? Minimize damage control? Because how the fuck could this woman love me back?

Fuck.