He unzipped my dress and pulled it off my shoulders, letting it puddle to the floor around my feet without breaking that kiss. He dipped his head down to my breasts, tweaking my nipples with his tongue while his hands traveled farther south, hooking my panties and shoving them roughly down.
Moaning, I let him cover me with his affections as I worked to get his shirt off and his pants undone. He was hard when I reached for him. Throbbing. He swept me up and carried me to the bed and tossed me into the middle of it.
I landed with a little squeal and he was on me, pressing my legs apart. I reached for him and pulled him to me. There was nothing gentle about our lovemaking. We fucked hard and without apology. It was what we both needed and wanted. It was definitely what we both got.
An hour later, amid the badly disheveled bed linens, we were in for round two. It was slower, sweeter, more fulfilling in its way than the bawdy fuck-fest of earlier. This time we took our time and fed our hearts and souls, not just our bodies.
Conversation wasn’t on either of our minds during or afterward. I’m a firm believer in actions speaking louder than words, and our actions did just that. It sealed our bond with each other. It wasn’t merely sex, but a welding of one soul to another, the merging of two hearts into one.
As I drowsed in his embrace, his breathing became slow, deep and steady. He was falling asleep too, when I heard him say, “We’re just stuck with each other, eh?”
I giggled and said, “I guess we are.”