I stood up from the couch, where I’d been sitting, and got only two feet toward him.
He finished finalizing his transition, and then he caught me.
I was in the air, in his arms, and his mouth was on mine.
“Home. You’re mine,” he said.
I sighed. “You’re mine.”
We went upstairs.
His mouth was commanding. His tongue moved in.
Lust and pleasure wound through me, zinging me.
My body heated. I needed him.
The time he took to go to his father and back hadn’t been that long—a few days, but it felt longer. Like months. Space and distance in any form weren’t supposed to come between bonded souls, but it’d been necessary.
I’d ached for him while he was gone, but now he was here, and that ache was throbbing.
I wanted more. Of him.
He laid me down on the bed and began tasting me.
The corner of my lips.
The side of my face.
My throat.
My chest.
Between my breasts.
My right breast. My nipple.
My left. The left nipple.
He kept moving down. His tongue moved over me, sensually caressing.
I could barely endure it.
I felt myself coming apart at the seams, wanting him, but he held off. He bent over me, moving farther down.
Down.
My stomach.
His hands went to my pants, hooked into the waistband, and pulled them down.
Rising, his mouth moved as his hands skimmed over my hips, taking hold of my panties.
He slid two fingers underneath each side. A trail of goose bumps and shivers followed, igniting the ache inside of me.
I could feel the throb. It had its own heartbeat.
He looked up, his eyes finding mine, his mouth lowering as he pulled my panties down my legs. Then I felt his lips on my clit, his tongue moving, tasting me.