This is Zach.
This is how he tastes.
God, I love it.
My tongue delves into his mouth, seeking more of it. More of him.
I let go of his hand so I can clutch his shirt, pull him deeper into my kiss. And then he’s doing the same, wrapping an arm low on my back to tug me closer. My breasts press against his chest, and my nipples tingle.
I want to tell them to wait their turn because I’m not finished—not nearly finished—exploring the glory of his mouth.
And just like that, it’s upon us again. The madness. The frantic breaths. The throaty sighs. The softened cries.
There is so much to discover.
Amidst the tongue-tangling and the taste-feasting, I nibble the corner of his upper lip. I can’t help it. I have to. And when I do, a low purr of pleasure rumbles from Zach’s chest.
He nips my lower lip and sucks it into his mouth, and, I swear, I’m in danger of coming.
My God. Has it ever felt like this?
Has anything ever felt this good?
Have I ever felt this wanted?
No.
I answer my own questions.
No.
Because this is Zach. And there’s no one else like him.
With that thought, I squeeze him tighter, a flash of fear seizing me.
And even in this haze of pleasure—the joy of making his breath come short, the splendor of what he’s doing to me—this surge of panic might as well be a knock on the door.
Zach had cancer.
His own body threatened to end him.
What if I’d never met him?
What if I lose him?
What if he comes to regret this?
Regret me?
Breaking our kiss, I push myself away. “H-Hang on—”
Zach blinks like someone’s just thrown on the lights—even though the lights have never been off.
His chest visibly rises and falls. His color is higher than I’ve ever seen it. And before I allow sense to overtake me, a thought lands right in my center of gravity.
I want to watch him come.
For a fraction of a second, my vivid imagination taunts me. Zach, on his back in my bed, naked under my gaze. Face flushed, neck exposed, muscles taut, caught in the throes of ecstasy.