A warm meal and a quiet night

CHULANE like a river flows surely to the sea She growls at him, she hums a low moan, and he matches it, continuing his ministrations, driven mad with desire as she bucks and moves against him, as her dampness coats his fingers, as her heat has made him slick and hot in return. Then he is in position, and her thoughts pulse towards him, her lust, her desire, matched wholeheartedly by his own. She has shifted, her hips wider, her legs wrapped around him, drawing him nearer. It isn't until her plea hits him that he finally complies, leaning down into her, slowly, excruciatingly so, entering her warm wetness, relishing in the sensation - and also making sure that his length does not hurt her, that their anatomies are compatible, that she can hold all of him without harming herself. And he discovers that she is, groaning deeply, animalistically pressing his lips against her neck as his manhood is enveloped by her womanhood wholly and completely. Then he is moving back again, the motion still deliberate, still careful, drawing himself almost completely out of her before rocking forward to plunge himself completely within her folds once more, repeating the motion again, and again, matching whatever rhythm she sets, his own climax achingly close. His breathing is ragged, his moans deep and constant with the ecstasy, the effort, the lust and empathic bond that she blesses him with. some things are meant to be