I make small, vaguely needy sounds, most of them lost to his mouth. My hand slides slowly lower and lower, down to his waistband, which I grip, and tug lightly at, and then gently work the closure of it open.

I don't even have to slide my hand inside, my fingertips brush the warm, toned surface of his lower stomach, and I tremble. The intimacy of that touch, where only my hands have ever wandered.

"I want you inside me." I whisper, maybe too low for him to hear, but I can't imagine he doesn't feel what I need.

I need him inside me, over me, finding his pleasure within me. I want to move slowly, not hurried or frantic. I want us both to cry over how strongly we feel for each other.