He didn’t disappoint. Even as his thumb settled on that one, sensitive spot, he pushed two fingers inside of her. She was already swollen and desperate. The second he began to rub, she felt herself losing control.

It was too fast, she thought as he stroked her, at the same time moving his fingers in and out of her. Too fast and too much and so incredibly perfect she didn’t want him to stop. She arched her hips to get closer, to take more. She moaned and writhed. Wanting filled her.

He abandoned her breast, then shifted so that he could kiss her again. She welcomed him in her mouth, then closed her lips around his tongue and sucked until it was his turn to groan.

He moved his hand more quickly-rubbing and pushing, taking her closer and closer. When she was within sight of her release, he drew back.

“You’re going to have to get on top,” he told her.

What?

He rolled onto his back and undid his jeans. Rational thinking returned just enough for her to realize he probably didn’t know how to be on top. Not yet, anyway. And who on earth cared?

She jerked off one boot, pushed down her jeans and panties, pulled one foot free, moved the clothing out of the way and settled herself on his erection.

He filled her completely, perfectly, and her body responded with a sigh. She rode him a couple of times, letting herself stretch around him, taking in the sense of being with a man again. This man who had taught her the pleasures possible.

“Lean forward,” he said.

She did as he suggested. He reached under her shirt and unfastened her bra, then cupped her breasts in his hands.

Rocks cut into her knees and her palms, but she didn’t care. Even as he teased her nipples, she moved up and down, filling herself with him, letting the heat rise between them. The wanting. Everything faded except the feeling between them.