His c**k moves inside me like a question I keep refusing to answer. Each thrust presses the air from my lungs, replaces it with heat, with the sound of our bodies meeting. I grip his shoulders, nails digging into the muscles there, and he watches me—those dark eyes never leaving mine, even as sweat beads on his forehead and his breath comes ragged.
"Say it," he whispers, but I shake my head, and he smiles—a broken, beautiful thing—and drives deeper, harder, until I forget what words are. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and I feel him everywhere: in my throat, my chest, the space behind my eyes where thought used to live.
He lowers his mouth to my neck, teeth grazing the pulse point, and I arch into him, a sound escaping me that's not quite a moan, not quite a sob. His
