His focus narrowed sharply to the smallest details, the reedy sound of her voice, the way her thighs trembled, the blunt press of her nails into his biceps, and the heady smell of her. Everything seemed to wind tighter and tighter, hanging for a long, still moment on the edge of a precipice, before he was able to watch her unravel there before his eyes.

He could feel it, too. The crest of her pleasure, washing over her again and again. Burying his face in the crook of her neck, he fought suddenly against his own orgasm, his length jolting impatiently in the palm of her hand.

She was obscenely wet, his fingers sliding from her with an audible squelch. He wanted to bury his face there, to taste her— wanted it with such clarity that he knew she would be able to see it, in his mind. He groaned, hips twitching desperately, his slick hand moving to grip the sheets at her hip.