Not enough.
No matter how close I pull him, no matter how deep I push inside, it's never enough.
I growl against the back of his neck, the spot where my bite is still fresh, still red and raw. I lap at it, mine, mine, mine, savoring the way his body trembles beneath me, the way his skin tastes like us, like something irrevocably changed. He gasps—a sound that sends heat surging through me like a wildfire—and squirms, caught between pressing closer or escaping the intensity of my hold.
He can't escape.
I won't let him.
I wrap an arm around his neck, pressing my chest flush against his sweat-dampened back, licking the mark again, tasting him, claiming him all over again. My other hand roams, mapping the heated planes of his chest, fingers catching on sensitive skin, pinching, rolling, teasing. I feel him shudder beneath me, feel the sharp intake of his breath when my fingers find his peaked nipples. Too sensitive. Perfect.