He was still so hard, so full, and she was so exquisitely sensitive that every millimeter of his invasion was a tiny, breathtaking earthquake.
"Jaenor," she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders.
"Look at me, Grandma," he commanded, his voice thick with a desire that bordered on reverence. The use of the familial title while he was buried inside her sent a jolt of illicit heat through her veins.
Her dark eyes, heavy-lidded with passion, fluttered open to meet his.
He began to move, not with the frantic, primal pace of before, but with a slow, deep, rolling rhythm that was infinitely more intimate.
Each withdrawal was a sweet agony of loss; each thrust, a homecoming that struck the very depths of her soul.
"This," he panted, his forehead resting against hers, their breath mingling, "this closeness… is it not the strongest bond? To be inside you… to feel you clutching me… to see your pleasure…"
