My Moon

"My Moon," he whispered, tracing the side of her face slowly before kissing her tenderly again and then willing himself deeper, gripping her thighs with his hands as his hips rolled against her.

She whimpered with the intensity of him—his hands that seemed to be at war with themselves, wanting to tear her clothes right here in the forest and yet trying to restrain himself with her modesty and insecurities in mind. At last, August encouraged him, arching herself against him with her arms laced behind his neck, fingers gripping his back.

"Mine," she whispered into the woods, her words spiraling up into the moonlight, "you're all mine," and she hooked her legs tighter around him, willing him closer.

This was what she needed—what they both needed—the reassurance of their mated souls entangling, blurring their physical boundaries and running together like watercolor, flushing everything else out.