Page 108 of The Sweetest Return

The word barely made it out.

Because I did remember.

I remembered his fingers finding me beneath the sheet, big and warm, careful for about three seconds before he realized careful was not what my body wanted anymore. I remembered being wet enough to make him curse under his breath. Remembered how one hand stayed at my breast while the other played with me, how he kept his mouth on my nipple until I was panting and pushing my hips into his palm.

My fingers circled faster.

The ring at my clit made every stroke feel brighter at the center, pleasure catching there before spreading low and deep.

“You got wetter every time I sucked your nipples,” he said. “I’d pull one into my mouth, rub your clit, and your whole body would lift off that mattress.”

My breath broke.

“I remember the sound you made when I pushed two fingers inside you. How tight you got around them. How your thighs opened even before I asked.”

The sheet twisted in my other hand.

My fingers slipped lower, just enough to feel how soft and slick I was, how my pussy clenched around nothing when he said inside. I brought that wetness back to my clit and stroked myself harder, lips parted, body too awake now to pretend this was only memory.

“Then I got on my back,” he said, “and you climbed over me like you had a point to prove.”

I moaned softly.

“There it is,” he murmured, then caught himself. His next words came gentler. “That morning, you rode me like you knew exactly what I needed.”

My fingers moved with more pressure.

“I remember your feet planted on my thighs,” he said. “Your hands on my chest. Tank top pushed up, panties somewhere under the covers, my sheets twisted all around us. The bed kept hitting the wall, and neither one of us cared.”

“Oh God.”

“I had my hands on that ass, helping you take all of me. Slapped it once and you got so wet I almost lost my mind.”

A shaky breath left me.

“Dre.”

“I know.”

My body climbed higher, pulled along by his voice, by the memory, by the way he sounded like he was watching it happen instead of inventing anything. He wasn’t rushing me. Wasn’t turning it into performance. He was reminding me of myself in his hands, in his bed, on his dick, wanted and known and taken care of at the same time.

And I remembered the way I had taken him that morning.

Sleepy at first, then greedy. Rolling my hips over him while his hands spread over my ass and his eyes stayed on my face. I remembered the feel of him inside me, the stretch, the fullness, the way my thighs burned because I refused to stop moving. Dre beneath me, jaw tight, chest rising hard, trying to let me have my rhythm until I got too slick, too wild, too loud, and his control started slipping under his hands.

The memory folded into the present until my fingers felt like his.

“That was you,” he said quietly. “Always so damn good when you stopped fighting how bad you wanted it.”

My orgasm moved close enough to make my thighs tremble.

“Don’t stop,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

The word rolled through me.