When my breathing begins to get heavy, Eve pulls away and presses her palms into my chest. She pushes me back onto the bed, grabs a condom from the bedside drawer, and then crawls over me, straddling my hips with her knees on either side. Achingly slow, she rolls it down my length with shaky fingers and then positions me at her opening. Then, she slides onto me. Every inch is heaven. When she rocks her hips, I bite back a moan.
I don’t do submissive. I don’t let a woman take control in the bedroom. Yet, that is exactly what I’m doing with Eve. I grip the curve of her hips in my hands, but she does all the work.
I study her face—the crease between her eyebrows and the small ‘o’ of her pouty lips—as she finds a rhythm. Her eyes flutter closed and her head tips back, and I barely hold it to
