Clive gropes along her hips as she straddles him, the air cool on his wet dick so briefly he imagines they were never parted at all. He lets out a sharp breath as she sinks against him, and he meets that kiss greedily. A shiver runs through him, and his grip on her hips tightens briefly before he grinds her against him.
No, he could say, but her love for him makes his heart surge. Imagine, being perfect in her eyes, the most important person who could love him like this. He gazes up at her, at her pale eyelashes, and that little break in the kiss gives him time to gasp: “I’m yours.”
"I thank the heavens for that every night," she tells him, and it may not be an exaggeration. They're meant to be together, forever. She knows that. "We were made for one another, Clive."
“Only usually,” he notes, and he gasps against her cheek as she continues to stroke him with every slow drag inside her. Has he ever felt so lazily love-drunk?
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"You're perfect," she moans.
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It's sweet.
"You gather me up in your arms like I dared to escape."
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"A little. I like it, usually."
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Under her, he feels, is just as sweet.