He went slowly at first, but every gasp and moan encouraged him to move his hips increasingly faster until he knew it would cause her no discomfort. She was not the quiet sort; he could tell what felt good—and what didn't, but fortunately there didn't seem to be much—with every little noise that left her mouth. He kissed her desperately, letting out a series of ragged breaths against her mouth as his hips drove against hers, seeking relief.

This wasn't making love—at least not anymore. He'd started out soft, but now it was hard and rough: a race to see who could make it to the brink first. His lips left hers, lazily trailing down her jawline and down to the nape of her neck. The feeling of her hands in his hair—the pulling, the tugging, the nails digging into his scalp—left his lips replaced with teeth as he effectively (though unintentionally...maybe) marked her as his.

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