Emboldened by his need, at how it matched my own, I scooted off, down, dropping to the floor as my hands moved outward, undoing his button and zip, reaching inside to free his cock.
I was convinced in that moment that nothing could sound better than the hiss of his breath as my hand closed around him.
But then he groaned out my name when my lips sucked him in, and I was sure that was the best thing I had ever heard.
Lincoln reached out, gathering my hair away from my face, holding it in his fist at the back of my head as his other hand bruised into the slope of my shoulder.
But as his body started to tense, as his system threatened release, he stopped simply keeping my hair out of the way and yanked hard. The pain smarted over my scalp as his cock left my mouth.
Lashes fluttering open, I found his chest heaving, his eyes almost golden in his need for release.
He pulled again, this time forcing me up to my feet, then down onto his lap, his cock sliding against my cleft, making a shiver course through me.
His lips took mine once more.
Harder, more demanding.
Lincoln got to his feet, turning, lowering me down onto the bed, breaking away from me for a moment as he freed himself of his pants and boxer briefs, stooping briefly to dig in his wallet, taking a short moment to protect us before moving onto the bed with me, turning on his side, grabbing my hip to turn me to face him.
His hand slid down my thigh, snagging my knee, draping it over his hip, then grabbing my ass, pulling me a tad closer. Close enough for his cock to move between my lips, press against me, pausing for a long moment as his gaze held mine before sliding inside.
Slow.
Perfect.
As he settled deep, a slow exhale moved through me before the need became too strong to deny, my muscles tightening around him, making a curse escape him, yanking away the last thread of self-control.
He started moving.
Nothing slow or soft or sweet.
Pure need.
One that matched my own.
His hand dug deeper into my ass, holding on as he rolled onto his back, pulling me with him.
“Ride me, baby,” he demanded, folding upward to press his chest to mine, his arms around my back.
He didn’t need to demand it again.
My body wouldn’t allow anything but release to the clawing, aching need in my core.
I rode him harder, faster, driving myself up, then quickly over, leaving me falling down into the orgasm, arms clinging, face buried in his neck as I cried out my release.
I thought I would take him with me, but before I could even catch my breath, Lincoln was flipping me back onto the mattress, sliding off the bed, yanking up my legs, placing both ankles on one shoulder, keeping my thighs tight together, making me feel him even more intensely as he started to fuck me.
There was no other word for what this was.
There was nothing tentative, nothing restrained.
His body slammed into mine, making the bed groan, making my hands fist the sheets, digging in, making my moans become nothing but airless whimpers.
One of his hands moved between my thighs, thumb working my clit as he continued. Harder. Faster. Deeper.
Another thrust, a swipe, and the world went white, exploded, broke me into pieces as his name ripped from my chest–raw, emotional–as the waves crashed violently through my body, only half aware of my name from between his lips as he came with me.
Somehow we both ended up on the bed, his arm draped over my waist from behind, neither speaking. Words, I thought, would have been inadequate in that moment. Even if we could catch our breaths enough to force them out. Which seemed impossible for a long while.
“I’ll be right back,” he assured me a long while later, giving my hip a squeeze before moving off the bed, walking into the bathroom.
Maybe this was when I should have been scooting up, climbing under the blankets, or–at the very least–moving myself into a more flattering position. Even if I wanted to, I suddenly found myself without any skeletal or muscular structure–just a blob of post-sex contentedness.
It had been a while which could have been affecting my mindset, but I was pretty sure my body had never been quite this satisfied, this buzzy and warm with not just pleasure, but this deep sense of rightness.
Every single thing about that had felt so entirely, overwhelmingly perfect.
Him.
Me.
The way we seemed to know each other’s rhythms intrinsically, no actual communication necessary, just bodies that understood how the other worked, what it needed and when.
People would often refer to me as things like romantic or wishy-washy, and I admit that I have a tendency to seek deeper meaning in all things I like–mainly because I thought there was always a deeper meaning to everything–but I knew with such startlingly succinct clarity that this was not me seeking meaning. This simply had meaning.