Again.
Again.
Then he's there, thrusting through his orgasm, raking his teeth against my skin, digging his nails into my hip.
His pulsing pulls me toward the edge.
Then I fall over it.
It's harder, more intense, an agonizing mix of pleasure and pressure.
I come with intense pulses. Bliss spills through me again, consuming every other thought, consuming every ugly thing in the world.
I see stars.
Actual stars.
When I'm finished, I collapse.
He catches me, carries me to the couch, helps me out of my dress.
I sink into the cushions.
He rights his boxers. Then he sits and removes my boots and socks, one foot at a time.
"Have I told you how much I love these?" He nods to the boots sitting next to the couch.
"That particular pair?"
"You in combat boots."
"You've only seen me in them twice."
"I pictured you in only the boots after our appointment."
"Really?"
He nods. "I like you in everything, but these… with that dress."
"The one you threw on your floor?"
He laughs, picks up the dress, drapes it over the couch. "It's sexy as hell. But, more, it's you."
"You barely know me."
"I know enough."
There isn't a single objection in my brain. Yes, he mostly knows this side of me. But he knows me better than anyone here.
And all I want to do is get to know him better, let him know me more. It's not love, but it's more than lust.
"Then why are you keeping me naked?" I ask.
"That's sexy too."
I laugh. "Reasonable."
"I'm smart sometimes," he says.