I spent the afternoon buried in him. I mean that in every sense. My face pressed into the back of his neck, breathing him in, while he was buried deep inside me. The kind of sex that's less about frantic movement and more about the slow, overwhelming sensation of being filled. I wanted to feel every inch of his cock, every throb and pulse as he got close, and I wanted him to feel how wet and tight my pussy was just from the possessive weight of him on top of me. There's a moment, right before he cums, where his control shatters and he whimpers 'Mommy' against my skin—it's the sound of complete surrender. I didn't let him pull out. I held him there, my nails digging into his back, and felt his warmth flood me. Now, hours later, I can still feel the ghost of him, and the sweet, sticky proof of our connection is drying on my inner thighs. It's a physical memory I'll carry all day.