I've been ready, on proverbial pins and needles this whole time and likely even longer than that, back to when I'd touched his hand at the bar and tried to convince myself I hadn't felt that spark of energy, that indescribable flutter of arousal in the pit of my stomach. It doesn't have to be fancy, it doesn't need to involve all kinds of moves. I just need the simplicity of this, and the ease with which he slides into me is enough to knock my breath out of me, my body opening up underneath him, slowly unfurling, legs spreading wide and wider as he starts to move, slowly but still just enough to get me there.

My hands find his shoulders and then his back, fingertips forming light pressure points before giving way for the sharper dig of my fingernails, scratching just enough for him to feel it through the cotton of the shirt. All I need is a few more thrusts, my toes curling against the bedspread as that familiar heat starts to coil low in my belly, and I tense underneath him, so frustratingly close that I feel the moan choking up in my throat as I clutch at his back, helpless, unable to do anything else but move into him, rocking up to meet him halfway, my eyes squeezing shut as his name finally spills from my lips.