Page 90 of Feels Like Home

She wiggles around, causing me to push in deeper. Her head falls forward as her hands scrape along mychest.

“It’s so… oh my… it’s just so good,” she breathesout.

“Yeah,” Igrunt.

If my brain felt connected to my body at the moment, I would probably be able to say something a hell of a lot more eloquent than just mono-symbolicgrunts.

“I think… I need tomove.”

“Yeah.”

O-for-two in the response category of theevening.

I decide, since my mouth isn’t working, I’m gonna have to rely on the physical to showher.

I grip her hips and twist, wanting to be able to look down at her. Needing to see her splayed out beneathme.

Her dark hair is a stark contrast to the white pillowcases, her emerald eyes sparkling with emotion. Her breasts bounce wildly. Her skin shiny with a sheen ofsweat.

There’s nothing in this world that I could ever find more beautiful thanher.

I lift one of her legs and place it on my shoulder as I continue to thrust into her, giving me a different angle. I can feel myself hit the spot so deep inside her it, almost brings stars tomyeyes. I pull out slowly, pushing back in harder each time. With each thrust, I can feel us both gettingcloser.

“Oh! Oh, my gosh!Yessss!”

“Rightthere?”

“Mmm hmm. Yeah,” sherasps.

“You almost there, baby? I can feel you pushing againstme.”

“So… oh yes. Now!I’m…”

And that’s all ittakes.

I follow her right over the edge, resisting the urge to collapse right on top ofher.

I land half on the bed next to her, half on top, twisting us slightly so I don’t slide out of her completely. I’m still pulsing through the last of my release when I feel her squeeze metwice.

Christine’s eyes are closed, a soft smile covering her face. She lifts her hand then unceremoniously drops it, like it’s simply too much work to keep it raised for any amount oftime.

I know the feeling. Everything in me is used up.Spent.

And yet, I know if she were ready right now, I would start back up again in aheartbeat.

We both chuckle. When she cracks an eye open and she sees that I’m staring at her, she scrunches her face up adorably and covers it with herhands.

“Stop staring atme!”

“Why?”

“Because!”

“Your response is worthy of a secondgrader’s.”

She shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t take offense to that in the least. Have you heard some of Harper’scomebacks?”

“Touché. Want to get cleaned up?” I don’t know why I ask. Of course she wants to clean up. It can’t feel good to have that dripping out of you, but selfishly I have no desire to let hergo.

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