He wouldn't stop raining his confessions on me while my mouth moved from his cap all the way down, and then back up again.
"Argh, María José. How did you get so good at it?" He groaned out, arousal thickening his voice.
I laughed, grabbing his balls. "How can I not when I have you for a husband?"
In reciprocation, he fisted my hair and began to guide my mouth slowly until my lips closed in on his length and then spewed it back out.
He pushed me gently onto the bed before he could release, crawling over me. His lips kissed down the valley between my breasts, across my ribs, my stomach — worshipping instead of rushing.
He wasn't trying to own me. He was trying to come home.
Every time our bodies moved together, it felt like an apology. Like forgiveness wrapped in heat and breath and the silk of skin on skin.
