AYLETH
When he kissed her, they both sucked in hard.
His breath was hot, his hands searching. She clung to his waist as he bent over her, taking her mouth gently, but insistently.
She let her hands climb his back first, pressing to feel the steel muscles beneath his shirt, her first instinct that she must be careful, have caution, that they might be discovered.
But no, she remembered with joy, this was right. This was true and good. He was her husband. Her body was his, and his was hers.
With a small gasp, tilting her head into his kiss—between his hands that framed her face—she pulled back enough to begin unbuttoning his shirt.
It was the work of moments to get them undone and when she pulled the sides of his shirt apart and put her hands to his stomach, his muscles clenched like her touch burned. But he grabbed her chin and deepened the kiss, a low hum in his throat resonating in his chest so she felt it under her hands.
