His jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. His grip on my hip became vicelike, fingers pressing into bone. A low, wounded sound gathered in his throat.
"That's it," he gritted out, the words torn from somewhere deep. His eyes were slits of emerald fire, his lashes dark fans against skin flushed with arousal.
I lifted myself up on my trembling thighs, positioning my body over his. With my other hand, I guided him, the blunt, slick head of him nudging against my entrance. I was so wet, so ready, that even that small touch sent sparks up my spine.
Then I sank down.
Slow. Agonizingly slow. I felt every millimeter of him stretching me, filling me, claiming a space that belonged only to him.
The stretch was a burn—a delicious, full, aching burn of rightness. I was so slick he slid in easily, but he was so thick I felt every ridge, every pounding pulse of his blood within him. My inner muscles fluttered, clenched, trying to accommodate him, to pull him deeper.
