"Peter... come," she called again from inside the closet, her voice a low, trembling thread of velvet and courage, laced with the raw, aching need that had been building for years and months for me, now she was finally ready to shatter the last of her defenses.
"Please, come here babe, I hate to wait any longer."
I rose from the bed, the mattress sighing beneath me like it knew what was coming, and crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps, the carpet plush and warm under my bare feet, swallowing every sound except the thunder of my pulse and the wet throb of my cock against my thigh.
My hand closed around the cool brass handle of the glass door, the metal slick with condensation from the heat radiating inside, the air already thick with her scent—jasmine, sweat, arousal, pussy, desperation—so potent it coated my tongue like a drug.
I pushed the doors open wide.
And perfectionslammed into me.
