Page 38 of Worshiping Faith

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

My heart races as he moves, slow and steady, dragging his mouth back down.

Another kiss.

Another.

His tongue traces new patterns, his fingers parting me just enough to make me shudder.

And then, I shatter again.

My hands grip the sheets, my legs trembling so hard I have no control over them.

I expect him to ease up, to let me recover.

He doesn’t.

He licks me through it. Savors it.

And when I gasp his name again, voice wrecked, body undone, only then does he finally move up my body.

His fingertips trail behind his lips, brushing over my waist, my ribs, the swell of my breasts. A soft graze of teeth against my collarbone. A slow, lingering kiss against the pulse in my throat.

By the time he settles between my legs, I’m aching for him.

I reach for his hips, pulling him down, but he catches my wrists easily, pinning them beside my head.

“Not yet.” His voice is softer now, but the control in it is absolute.

He slides into me so slowly it’s unbearable.

There’s no sharp thrust, no frantic pace, just him stretching me open, inch by inch, like he wants me to feel every second of it.

A deep, broken moan slips from my lips, and I arch into him, trying to urge him faster.

He doesn’t give in.

His movements stay slow, deep, intentional.

I lose track of how many times he drives me over the edge, how many times my body breaks beneath his hands.

Only when I’m panting, clinging to him, wrung out from the pleasure he’s drawn from my body, does he finally let go of my wrists.

I barely have the strength to move.

But I do.

Because I want to.

Because I need to.

I push against his chest, rolling him onto his back, straddling him, my thighs shaking.

His hands find my hips, but instead of guiding me faster, he slows me down. He presses me down onto him fully, grounding me, forcing me to feel every inch of him buried inside me.

Steady. Deep.

I let my head fall forward, forehead pressing against his as we move together, slow and intense.

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