No condom this time—we'd stopped using them after that first weekend, after I'd assured him about birth control, after we'd both admitted we wanted nothing between us.
"You feel like heaven," he said roughly, his forehead pressed to mine as he bottomed out. "Every single time, you feel like heaven."
He started moving with slow, deep strokes that had me struggling to stay quiet. This position—missionary with him above me, our eyes locked—felt impossibly intimate. More intimate than the frantic f***s in his office or his car. This was making love, and the realization made tears gather in my eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately, stopping.
"Nothing's wrong," I whispered. "Everything's right. That's the problem. This feels so right and it should feel wrong."
He kissed away the tears
