He slides a finger inside me.
I’m so wet for him. I have been wet for him since the moment he sat down on the couch next to me. He curls his fingers up and finds the spot and presses and works it and I am gone — gone — my hips coming up off the couch, my hand fisting in his hair, the sounds coming out of me unfiltered, unmanaged, completely his.
“Jax — I’m —”
“I got you.”
“Don’t stop —”
“Wasn’t going to.”
He adds a second finger. Curls them. Closes his mouth around me and sucks.
I come.
I come hard, with his mouth on me and his fingers inside me and his other hand splayed flat against my stomach, holding me. Icome saying his name. I come without trying to be quiet because there’s no one here and even if there were I don’t care anymore, I don’t care.
He works me through it. Doesn’t pull off. Doesn’t stop. Slows when I need him to slow, stays when I need him to stay, lets me ride out every wave with his mouth still on me.
When I’m finally too sensitive he eases off. Kisses my inner thigh. The crease of my hip. My stomach.
Sits back on his heels.
Looks up at me.
I look down at him.
His mouth is wet. His hair is wrecked. His eyes are dark.
He looks like a man who just gave me something and isn’t sure I know how much it cost him.
“Come here,” I say.
He climbs up the couch. Lays me back. Kisses me with my own taste in my mouth — and then his is in there too, both of us together, and that’s when I feel him hard against me again, ready for me.
He lines up at my opening.
“You sure.”
“Jax.”
“You sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He thrusts into me.
Slow. All the way. Bottoms out and pauses, his forehead pressing to mine, his breath catching, his whole body going still while we both adjust to him being inside me again.
“There you are,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“There you are,” he mutters.
He starts to move.
Slow. Deep. The kind of sex that isn’t rushed and isn’t a performance — just two people who have figured out their bodies together and are going to take their time