Ronan
Eli’s still trembling under me. From the bone-deep, nerve-tingling aftershocks of me being inside him for the first time.
I’m still wrapped in his scent, still tasting him on my tongue, still feeling the echo of him clenching around me. My c**k twitches at the memory, and I have to grit my teeth not to start again before he’s caught his breath.
He lies here looking every kind of sinful. Flushed and loose-limbed, his hair sticking to his damp forehead. My marks, made by my teeth and the rough grip of my hands, are all over him. The sight of it is a high I don’t think I’ll ever come down from.
“You’re staring,” he mutters, eyes half-closed, voice hoarse.
“Memorizing,” I correct, my tone low enough to make his pupils dilate.
He makes a noise, part derision, part something softer.
