He heard it.
Still holding my hand, he brought me to the stairs, and led me to our bedroom. Once we were through the door, our clothes began to come off. After the day he had, I expected there to be an urgency in his movement, a roughness where he thrusted inside me the second I hit the bed, my body helping him work his stress off.
But his mouth was kissing down my navel instead and he said, “I need to taste you,” against my inner thigh.
My hand went into his hair and I twisted his locks around my fingers, pulling harder the closer he brought his mouth. He was taunting me, teasing the perimeter, his tongue eventually landing on that deliciously sensitive spot.
He licked until I was clinging to the comforter, my back arched, my heels digging into the bed. Until I was shouting, “Emery,” across the bedroom. Until I was bucking against his mouth, getting friction from the point of his tongue.
When I stopped shuddering, he stayed between my legs but moved to his knees, griping my sides and lifting me to meet him. He hissed when he entered me, a sound I’d fallen in love with the first time I heard it.
“Yes,” I breathed, clenching around him.
He brought his face up to mine, his lips barely resting against my mouth. I rocked my hips forward to greet him in and back to slide him out.
And then in again.
I held him there.
Squeezing.
Emery’s fingers were like teeth, biting into my skin. “Jesse … you feel so fucking good.”
Those words started the build inside my body. “Faster,” I cried.
He turned me to my side and drove in from behind, his arm crossing my chest, his legs scissoring mine.
“Ahhh,” I groaned, my husband quickly reminding me how fast that sensation could return.
I was tightening.
He was grunting, moving quicker. Deeper.
And while we clutched each other, we broke at the same time.
After he pressed his lips against my cheek, keeping them there while we found our breath again. After we stilled. After he fell asleep and I lay awake, my mind racing with every thought.
I knew one thing.
I was so lucky to have him.