He stood up and grabbed my waist, hauling me to my feet. He didn't let me catch my breath. He turned me around, pushing me forward until my palms hit the cool marble of the kitchen island. He pressed his chest against my back, the heat of him radiating through my skin.
"I've wanted to see you from this angle for years," he muttered, his breath hot against my ear.
"Please," I whimpered, my voice a mere shadow of itself. "I want you inside me. Now."
I heard the sound of his zipper—a sharp, metallic *zip*—followed by the rustle of fabric. He gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh, pulling my ass back against him. I could feel him—thick, hard, and pulsing—pressing against my entrance.
"You're so wet for me, Fiona," he groaned. "You're practically begging for it."
"I am begging
