Myra
The boy I had known as a teenager was gone. In his place was a man who moved with a slow, devastating confidence. When he lowered his head to my center, to taste me, a surprised cry broke from my lips, echoing in the quiet rafters of the Kent family farm house.
I buried my hands in his hair, my back arching off the velvet cushions. He was thorough, patient, and utterly focused on my pleasure in a way that made my defenses crumble into ash. Every stroke of his tongue was a challenge to my control, a quiet command to let go.
When he finally moved back up my body, I was a mess of raw nerves and heat. He reached for his boxers, the last barrier, and kicked them aside. When he finally sank into me, the world went silent. No wind. No snow. Just the incredible, crushing weight of finally
