Oh, that kiss. That powerful, erotically charged kiss that takes my breath away and makes me go weak at the knees every time. The kiss that tells me how much he loves, wants me. This is how he captured my heart.
He would approach me when I wasn't expecting him to, take my hands in his and back me into a wall, a door frame or onto the bed. He'd take both my wrists in one hand and pin me, so I was helpless, unable to move. Not that I wanted to.
His other hand would roam, up and down my torso, stroking, caressing, grabbing. I would moan and give in to him, let him do whatever he wanted. He'd pinch and grab at my buttocks, pulling me into him, so I could feel the growing bulge at his crotch. He'd work his fingers into my bra, squeezing my breasts, pinching my nipples; his breath hot and ragged against my neck as he whispered, "You like that, don't you, baby?" to me. All I could do in reply was nod and whimper.
And then he'd stroke his fingers down my cheek, along my jawline and gently hook my chin up so I was looking into his big, brown, sexy, come-to-bed eyes. Ever so slowly, he'd lower his lips to mine, barely brushing them, leaving me wanting more. They were so soft, his touch so delicate, so addictive, that I'd be squirming under his insistent hold on me, wanting him, no needing him, to press his mouth on to mine.
When I thought I couldn't take any more, he'd slide his hand behind my head, twisting his fingers firmly into my hair, so there was no escape and he'd press his lips insistently to my own, me opening my mouth to his by instinct, allowing his tongue to roam my mouth. He'd push it in so deep that it would force my mouth open further, and I would be truly helpless before him.
He'd consume me, ravage me, leave me breathless, panting, feeling owned, turned on, so erotically charged, so wanted, so needed, his.
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