Like a married couple

He sets her on the bed like she is something he means to keep for the hours they have.

No rules. No list. The two nights have started and he treats the first of them as if the clock is not running. He kisses her first, long, the kind of kiss that closes the kitchen conversation and opens something else. Her hands come up to his face. She kisses him back like she is storing it.

Clothes come off between more kisses. Her shirt, his mouth already on the skin he uncovers. His shirt, her palms on his chest. Her shorts. He takes his time with the last of it, kneeling, mouth on her knee, her thigh, the place that still makes her twitch when he finds it. She laughs once, soft, and the laugh turns into a moan. She pulls him up and then lets him lay her back.

He kisses his way down like he has nowhere else to be. Her neck. The tops of her breasts. A nipple, sucked until she arches and sighs his name. Then the other. The soft skin below her navel, where he lingers, kissing, breathing her in. He does not rush the destination. By the time he settles between her legs she is open, wet, one hand already reaching for his hair, the other fisted in the sheet.

He eats her like he has time.

Slow. Thorough. Tongue flat through her folds, then pointed on her clit, learning her again even though he knows her. Two fingers, gentle, curling, the care from the night he made her squirt and the morning he told her to forget the list. Lana does not hold back. She says his name. She says it feels like theirs. She tells him not to rush, they have tonight.

He does not rush. He builds her and eases her and builds her again. Sucks her clit until her thighs shake, then licks her open, then comes back. His free hand strokes her hip. She tells him she can feel every pass of his tongue. She tells him she is close and not to stop this time. When she cums it is long and full-bodied, a cry she does not muffle, hips lifting into his mouth. She squirts, a hot rush over his tongue and chin and the fingers still inside her, and he stays. He licks her through it. Drinks. Murmurs against her until the pulses thin and she is panting, laughing once, wrecked, tugging at his hair.

“Come here,” she says. “I want you up here.”

He starts to climb, cock hard against her thigh, ready to sink in. She pushes at his chest and rolls him onto his back instead.

“My turn now.”

She takes him in her mouth. Loving. Deep. She kisses the head first, looks at him, then sinks. Eyes on his when she can manage it. Hand and lips together, tongue on the underside, taking him until her eyes water and easing off to breathe and kiss him again. She builds him the way he built her. Slow. Then deeper. She brings him right to the edge, feels his stomach tighten, feels the warning in the hand that finds her hair.

She pulls off with a wet kiss to the head, smiling, almost cruel in how tender it is.

“Not yet. I want you inside when you cum. I want to feel it.”

She climbs on. Holds him at the base. Sinks down slow, inch by inch, both of them groaning when she is seated and full and there is nowhere left to go. She stays there a moment. Just full.

Then she rides him like a wife. Rolling. Grinding. Kissing him between breaths. Hands on his chest, then on his face. He holds her hips and lets her set the pace, thrusting up only to meet her, not to take it over.

She talks against his mouth. How good he feels. How deep. How she wants to remember the stretch of him.

He tells her she is beautiful. He tells her to take her time. He tells her he has her.

She cums that way. Forehead to his. Cunt pulsing around him. A soft cry into his kiss that he swallows. He holds her through it, arms around her back, still inside, not chasing his own finish. He lets her shake. He kisses her temple. He stays.

When she can move again she nods against his mouth.

He turns her carefully. Onto her knees. He comes in behind her and pushes in, one long stroke that makes her drop to her elbows and moan his name into the mattress. His hands find her hips. He fucks her with a rhythm that is still loving and no longer slow. She pushes back to meet him. The sound of them fills the room, wet, steady, intimate. She says his name again. Louder. The sound of a woman being filled by someone she is about to lose.

He thrusts deeper, grip firm, leaning over her, mouth on her shoulder, her spine, telling her he has her, telling her she feels perfect, telling her not to hold anything back.

“Finish inside me,” she gasps, voice breaking on it. “Please. I want it. I want you in me. I want to feel you cum. Please, Adam.”

He does not speed up just to end it. He leans over her back, still deep, still moving, mouth at her ear, breath hot, and whispers into her ear.