His lips fall on me slowly, and I swear I feel them whisper the words—whisper I love you. I don’t say anything, because the sound wasn’t there. But I felt them. I feel them now.
He pulls himself above me, his elbows holding most of his weight and his forehead pressed to mine while our lips dance, grazing lightly. I let him take complete control. I surrender, and I wait—patiently wait for him to deepen our kiss, because I want more of him, more of his lips and his body and his everything.
When he begins kissing me harder, there’s another shift—time no longer standing still, but racing. He lies to his side, next to me, his lips and teeth rough against my neck, but the feeling is so welcomed. He grips the bottom of my cotton T-shirt quickly, pulling it up and over my body and arms, my bra unsnapping in the front and falling to the sides. When I move to lower my arms, he traps them above my head with one hand, his body leaning into me as he kisses me again, moving his way down my chin, my neck, my chest, until his teeth find the hardness of my nipples, and he pulls them into his mouth, biting just enough to send shivers across my bare skin.
My back arches on instinct, and he’s fast to move his right arm underneath me, pulling me closer into him while he devours my breasts.
Everything about our movements is hot, needy, wanting, greedy, hungry—a million selfish words. But there’s also something else—more than passion, more than lust. It’s like we both have so much to say, but the only way we’re willing is through a physical connection.
My hands finally free, I let them glide down his chest until I find the edge of his shirt, and I pull it from his body. This is my favorite feeling in the world—the feel of his skin against mine. The heat from him takes away my chills as his hands glide around me, kissing his way up between my breasts and neck and back to my mouth again. This kiss is fast, his teeth holding onto my bottom lip as his forehead presses to mine and his eyes look down.
Down, down, down—his hands sliding down until he finds the band of my black cotton pants. A growl escapes him as he finally lets loose of his grip on my mouth, and his thumbs work my pants and panties quickly down my hips, then thighs, then knees until I simply kick them away.
Ty’s eyes look drunk, they’re so heavy as they follow the curve of my body—tracing the line he draws with one finger from my thigh to my inner thigh until he’s where I’m craving him most.
There aren’t any words. There are no jokes or role-playing or sweet-talking or flirting. We’ve moved past that, past the nerves. We’re completely in sync, and as Ty runs the tips of his fingers over me intimately, I allow myself to gasp and whimper for him to hear exactly what his touch—what he—does to me.
His teasing is soft and sensuous, no rushing to get to the next part. We have hours, and the slowness of every move he makes is as if he plans to take every minute available to us to bring me pleasure. I’m not able to stop the pressure building inside of me, and when it becomes unbearable, I let myself go—wave after wave of tremors passing through me, against his touch. I let out a small cry again, and Ty groans, biting at my shoulder.
I want him to feel just as I do, want him to feel this with me. And the need inside me has only grown from his touch. My hands quickly find the button and zipper of his jeans, and he’s not shy about helping me to work his clothes completely off of his body. My hand wraps around his length, and his eyes roll closed with my touch.
My touch is firm and continuous as I feel every bit of his hardness, and his breathing begins to grow more rapid with every movement. I stop only to reach into his jeans on the floor for a condom. I unwrap it and slip it over him, my hand feeling him one more time until his hand grips around mine to stop me. I’m expecting him to grab my hip, to direct me on top of him—to guide me just as he did the last time. But instead, he holds us here, paused, his eyes almost afraid.
“I want to hold you,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, and his eyes trapped somewhere between need and despair. “While we do this…I want to hold you. I want to feel how you feel when I’m inside you. But…”
His breath catches, and his eyes close, almost as if he’s searching deep within for the rest of what he needs to say, for the courage to say it.
“Anything, Tyson. What is it? You can tell me anything?” I say, letting my head fall forward until my lips can kiss his cheek.
“I want to hold you to me…but I don’t know how,” he says, looking down, but only for a moment. I don’t understand at first, so I hold his gaze and my breath. And then I realize. When Ty’s above me, his weight is held with the strength of his massive arms. They control his body, help him move, allowing him to do everything—everything but this.