“Slow,” Summer begged, face heated and hands clutched deep in the coverlet, “oh please slow.” He was so close, she couldn’t help tasting his pleasure and desire, his need to make her feel good — the feedback loop was powerful. She whimpered his name over and over, back arching and rocking into his hand. The peak was just out of reach, and she grabbed for him, hand flailing at his arm to pull him down by her so she could kiss him.
Nodding obediently and quickly slowing down his movements, he leaned in to meet her in a needy, passionate kiss, his tongue eagerly running along the seam of her lips in a silent request for entry. It felt so wonderfully new and exciting, and he couldn’t believe that she wanted this of him. It was addictive how a simple touch of his fingers could cause her so much pleasure, and he vowed to continue it until she asked him to stop.
Their mouths met, and his motions slowed, and she cried out into his kiss. The sloppy, open-mouthed kiss pushed her that much closer, and then his tongue brushed hers and she fell over the edge, shuddering and clutching at him. Her body crumpled forward, trying to hold onto that feeling of flying free of herself, and her voice choked in her throat.