That's what he says as he gazes up at her quite awkwardly and if Annie could blush she would be. Her cheeks would flush and she would laugh in her own awkwardness as she gazed away, to lift her fingers to her hair, curling strands around, only to let go and have them spring right back into place.
But Annie cannot blush and she is very happy about that. She doesn't want to blush. She doesn't want to fumble over her words and giggle like a little schoolgirl with a crush.
She just wants Mitchell. She just wants to feel Mitchell.
She feels him now, as she sits upon his lap, as she turns, pressing her back to his chest as she presses her hands to his thighs. Her head tilts to the side and she feels his breath upon her skin, hears the way his breathing becomes faster.
It makes her smile. She rubs her backside onto his lap, right against the one part she tried to touch this morning before he pushed her hands away.
"Mitchell," she whispers. "Is this all right? Do you like this?"
He gasps against her neck.
She smiles far more. Squeezes at his thighs, rubs herself more persistently onto him. She knows this is all right, she knows that he likes this. She can feel that. She may not have much experience, not as much as her Mitchell, but she knows this.
"Annie," he growls. Growls her name right against her skin and she shivers. Shivers! Who knew she could?
"Mitchell," she whispers again.
His hands are pressed up against her abdomen, long fingers flexing and pressing into her skin and she moans herself. That feels good. She can feel. She can feel his hands. She can feel him, hard and harder as she rubs, as she grinds back onto him now. She feels him on this level, one she's never experienced before and she thinks, yes, he was right. This, whatever it is they have, it's meant to be. It has to be. She's never felt like this.
"Annie," he repeats, sounding more strangled now. "Annie, I'm going to -"
"Shh, let go," she tells him. "Mitchell, please, I want you to feel good."
"I do," he moans. "Oh, I do. Annie, Annie, Annie …"
He grabs her hips, holds them bone crushingly tight and she feels that, too. She likes that roughness. She feels safe with him. She loves him.
"Mitchell," she whimpers.
His reply is a moan of what she assumes if his attempt to say her name again, but then he is lax beneath her, panting for breath.
She presses her hands against his, strokes at his skin.
It is minutes of this until he kisses her neck.
"What else is on that list of yours?" he asks, whispering the question huskily into her neck.
She laughs delightedly. "Number two," she murmurs, "Dirty talk …"