Naomi cried. She gripped his back and raised her legs higher. Brice swore he’d just dipped deeper into eternity. “I know, baby,” he moaned in her ear, moving in long penetration strokes, in and out of her, grinding his pelvis against her so that he teased her throbbing bud each time he moved. He cupped her breast in one hand, its silky lushness overflowing as he massaged it and tweeked her nipple between his fingertips. Making love with Naomi was taking a ride to heaven. He’d had women in his life that knew all kinds of tricks and could make their vaginas sing the national anthem, but none of them turned him out and turned him on like Naomi. He couldn’t get enough of her. And the turn-on wasn’t the sex itself, he thought, through a cloud of ecstasy, as a shot of euphoric pleasure shimmied through him when she twisted her hips and offered up her other breast for him to feast on. It was all that came before it—the talking, the laughter, the getting inside each other’s head, the knowing what the other was thinking, anticipating their wants.
