She wanted him, wanted to taste the fierce passion of kiss, the rough, almost wild way he'd take her, and the possessive hold of his arms.
He lounged over the doorjamb, half dressed, shirtless but in his jeans, barefoot, his masculine essence large and imposing in her boudoir.
Her pulse quickened at the image, Why are you here?
You want me here. Before she had any chance to bid him away, his lips touched the delicate dip under her ear, peppered he throat with soft, hungry busses, and his calloused hands wasted no time in cupping her breasts.
She allowed him to make love to her neck and play with her hardened nipples. Desire pooled between her legs. He grabbed her there, spreading her legs and pushing the insulting undergarment aside and rubbed at the swollen pink bud.
His fingers dipped into her warmth and soft noises escaped her plump lips. The lips he'd been kissing deeply as he touched her. His fingers rubbed her harder, knowing she was close.
She wanted him to taste her, fill her.
You want me to love you.
And just with that the spell was broken, tears ran down her cheeks and what had been whimpers of pleasure were now sobs of sorrow.
Wave after wave of pleasure burst through her body. A mixture of pain and pleasure, for it was her hand bringing her to climax, not his.
She did want him to love her. For him to be hers forever and she forever his but she'd never be.
She nuzzled her soaked face into her pillow and clutch it tighter, a poor imitation of his solid body against hers and cried, for I was all she could do.