She was his first virgin, not to mention the first woman who had ever asked him to make love to her. Drawing a blanket over both of them, he ran his hand down her side, along her ribs, over the gentle swell of her hip. It surprised him when he realized that his hand shook, that it was important to him that her first time be perfect. Cloaked in the night, huddled beneath the blanket, he could not see her lovely body, so he committed it to memory with his touch. Her skin was smooth, flawless. Her breasts were lush and ripe, begging to be tasted, stroked, molded to his palm. She lay beside him, willing, anxious to discover, to give back. He felt her hands on him. Wherever he touched her, she mirrored his exploration. When he cupped the mound between her legs, she gasped, but didn’t draw away. Instead, she pressed into him, offering him more. Jemma ran her hand along his thigh until she grazed his throbbing manhood with her fingertips. At the gentle touch, light as air almost, he shuddered and nearly spilled his seed.
