Token of love

They say a bouquet opens hearts faster than words. Mine opened right here on the bed, blond hair spilling over the sheets while the dark-haired one eased his way inside. At first it was slow, a gentle push that made my breath hitch. Then he drove deeper, and I felt every inch stretch me wide. He took his time, hips rolling in that steady rhythm that leaves a woman open and wanting. My legs shook, the tight ring giving way, the heat of it spreading through my belly. He pulled out, glistening, and pushed back in without hurry, again and again, until the only sound was the slap of skin and my own low, ragged moans. When he bottomed out I stayed still, taking all of him, letting the long, slow strokes turn into something rawer, faster, until the tension broke and pleasure poured through me in hot waves. He stayed deep, pulsing, finished, and I lay there with the scent of roses still in the air.