Philip took the ripe plum-like head of his penis and inched inside Rosa in a slow torture that had his name pouring out of her mouth, over and over again.
She almost couldn’t handle the pleasure.
She arched and writhed, trying to get away.
She scratched his back and held on, trying to bring him closer.
It had been years, yeah, and she'd missed sex. Her supple woman's body needed a man's touch, and she'd never been embarrassed about guiding her husband's hands or asking for what she required. The decision to make love with Philip tonight had been partially about that need. Partially about the explosive attraction between them and the way he'd always stolen her breath with a look. Mostly it was because he called to something elemental and undeniable inside her.
But…this thing between them, whatever it was, was vast and overwhelming and she wasn’t ready for it. Not the hot friction as her unused body stretched to accommodate him, the gentle but unyielding thrust of his relentless hips or the utter focus with which he watched her every reaction.
“This is too much.” Tears collected in the corners of her eyes and though she never cried and hated for anyone to see her cry, they rolled down her temples and into her hair in an endless trickle. Sliding her hands over the warm living marble of his sculpted arms and chest, she gripped his round butt and absorbed every flex and every release of his muscles. She couldn’t open her legs wide enough; couldn’t hold him tight enough; couldn’t take him deep enough. “Too much. Too much.”
With his fathomless eyes wide open, he licked his way deep into her mouth, matching his tongue’s easy rhythm to the surge and withdrawal he was doing between her thighs.
Every in-stroke seated him to the hilt and rubbed against her swollen wet lips; every out-stroke left just the tip of him inside and her greedy body begging for more and then more again.
Meanwhile, his caressing hands on her breasts, her face, her hair—everywhere they could reach—should have soothed her but only drove her up and up until her tears and her cries went on forever with no beginning and no end.
“I’ve waited for you.” They were chest to chest as he spoke, the hard slabs of his pectorals abrading her nipples until they tightened down to buttons of exquisite sensation and she felt the thunder of his heartbeat and the rasp of his emotion. “I’ve waited and waited for you.”
“I’m so glad you did.”
“Why are you crying, sweetheart?”
“Because you feel so good. So good. I want to die, you feel so good.”
A smile, slow and devilish, filled with pure masculine satisfaction, hitched up one corner of his mouth. “Why else?”
“Because I needed this.” One of his heavy brows rose and her heart skipped because she knew—should have known—that he’d make her confess everything. “I needed you.”
He froze, buried deep inside her. To her astonishment, she saw the sudden flash of tears in his brown eyes and one fell, splashing her nose as he kissed her again, long and sweet.
“Why are you crying?” she asked when he raised his head again.
“Because,” he whispered, “You finally needed me.”
There was no warning. Just a well-placed next thrust that sent her over the edge into a beautiful oblivion where spasms of pleasure wracked her, his rigid, shuddering body drove her deeper into the bed and their ecstatic cries filled the night.
After five minutes of recovery, he reached for her again
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