Thatcher was no stranger to inspiring female arousal — but what he was sensing and<i>seeing</i>in Tanya was a new echelon. Her body was slim and petite and tiny. He could only imagine how heavenly tight her pussy was. But it was clear from the dampness she was transferring both to his bedspread and the crotch of his jeans, that not a single drop lube of would be required to penetrate her. He knew it was the product of desire; the way he touched her, and tasted her, and kissed her. But it also<i>deeper</i>than that. Their connection felt downright spiritual as though their bodies were lost puzzle pieces desperate to be rejoined. Every howl of the wind in the thickening blizzard outside only heightened this impression.<br/><br/>As she closed her arms around his neck and begged him for a proper fuck, he couldn't help but snicker. He didn't have to say a single word for her to know what he was thinking:<i>Patience, slut</i>. He sat up on his knees and pulled himself out of her grips. His eyes locked on hers he started to unbutton and unzip his Levi's before standing up off the bed to push them off. He wore black briefs beneath, the waistband of which was embroidered with the words<i>Calvin Klein</i>. The bulge in the front of the fabric rigid and prominent. All eight inches of him already rock hard for her.<br/><br/>In nothing but his briefs, he jumped onto his own bed beside her, sitting up, his back flat against the headboard — another piece of wood he carved and fashioned by hand. He spread his legs, clearing a space for her to lay between his thighs. "Get over here," he growled with a beckoning motion of his chin.