“Where?” she gasped. The query was somewhere between a demand and a broken plea. “When??”

“Bedroom,” he answered. His lips claimed hers again as he backed her towards the mammoth room.

Everything from that moment on became a blur.

Later, she would remember him laying her down atop the bed, his touch tinged with a veneration that almost brought her to tears. His strong, sure fingers tenderly trailing along her bare arms; their slow, agonizing voyage continuing as they journeyed up along the smooth expanse once again then began to dance along the swell of her silk-encased breasts. She would recall his eyes, his gaze beyond hypnotic or sensual, commanding she not look away. Not that she could if she wanted. She would tremble at the memory of his slow, deliberate disrobing. Just as they did then, once again, her eyes would flutter closed as she relived the small knowing, cruel smile that tugged the corner of his mouth as he watched her writhe, still fully clothed, atop the bed.

She would have to still the urge to cry out, just as she had done earlier that night when, magnificently nude and unapologetic, he covered her trembling body with his and made no attempt to mask how he reveled in her ragged breaths as she accepted the weight of his form, even as she willed her own not to respond to the need to wrap her legs about his waist, to thrust her hips up to meet his.

Mercilessly, she would be assaulted by memories of how she attempted to hold back the cry of sheer, spine-tingling ecstasy as he at last began to peel away first the coral Dior silk blouse then the silver skirt of the same until she was left clad in only a lace-trimmed sheer brassiere and scant scrap of silk.

Muscle-memory would kick in at the mere thought of the way she trembled as with a deliberate, painstaking precision he peeled away first the bra then the panties; especially at the recall of the kisses he rained along the insides of her thighs as the dampened scrap of silk descended her quivering limbs.

She would savor the memory of him smoothly sliding first one then two fingers between the folds of delicate flesh to find her wet and ready for him. Just as he had expected her to be, yet fully aware for him it was still nice to bask in the knowledge. Likewise, she would bask once again in the recall of the beauty of his unapologetic masculine smile in response to her sharp indrawn breath as she watched him bring his glistening fingers to his mouth and, his gaze holding hers the entire time, lap away her juices.

But what she would remember most was not her mistaken belief that she could not endure anything more, that she could not bear to witness another act of raw, primal sensuality. No, as she recalled the moment when she felt the head of his engorged member at the entrance of her warmth, what she would cherish most was the memory of the supremely sublime moment when they both returned ‘home’. . .to each other.

“You wanted to know where?” He did not wait for her answer but instead made his intent known. “Here.” His voice was once again a low growl as he pinned her with his gaze. “Like this.” Slow, deep, and deliberate was his thrust as he pushed into the wet, sweet, tightness that no other man would know but him.

“Just. Like. This.”

Song credit: Get Here—by Oleta Adams