I tried. Forced my muscles to unclench. Forced myself to open. To take him deeper.
The fullness was perfect. Exactly what I'd been craving. The emptiness that had been aching finally filled. The pressure exactly right. The stretch bordering on too much but not quite. Just perfect.
He pushed deeper. Deeper. Until finally—finally—he was fully seated inside me. His hips pressed flush against mine. Every inch of him buried in my body.
We both groaned. The sound came from somewhere deep. Primal. His forehead dropped to mine. His breath came in harsh pants against my lips.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Sophie. You feel—fuck."
I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. The sensation of being filled so completely was overwhelming. Not just physically. Emotionally. Like this was more than sex. More than fucking. Like we were connecting in a way that went deeper than bodies.
He stayed still. Let me adjust. Let both of us catch our breath. Let the moment be what it was—significant. Important. The first time. The beginning of something.
His hand found mine. Laced our fingers together. The gesture was tender. Intimate. More intimate somehow than having him inside me.
"Okay?" he asked quietly.
I nodded. Couldn't find words. Just nodded and squeezed his hand.
"Good," he murmured. He held himself still for another moment. His forehead against mine. Both of us breathing too hard. Both of us overwhelmed by the sensation of being connected like this.
Then he pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough that I felt the drag of him. The friction. The loss.
And pushed back in. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled.
The sensation made my eyes flutter closed. Made my breath catch. Made my whole body sing with pleasure.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
I forced my eyes open. Found his grey ones locked on my face. Intense. Focused. Missing nothing.
"Stay with me, devotchka," he said. Each word punctuated with a slow thrust. "I want to see you. Want to watch you fall apart."
He started moving then. Really moving. Slow, deep thrusts that made me see stars. Each movement deliberate. Each push hitting that perfect spot inside me. Each drag against my inner walls sending pleasure sparking through my nervous system.
His rhythm was steady. Controlled. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just perfect measured movements designed to build pleasure slowly. To make it last. To drag out this moment as long as possible.
My bad knee protested slightly when he changed angles. He noticed immediately. Adjusted. Supported my leg with his arm. Made sure I was comfortable even while he was inside me.
The care in that gesture made my chest tight. Made tears prick my eyes for reasons that had nothing to do with the desperate ache between my legs.
His hand found mine where it rested on the sofa above my head. His fingers laced through mine. Squeezed. Then pressed my hand into the leather. Pinning it there. Holding me in place.
The gesture was possessive. Intimate. Our fingers linked while his body moved inside mine. Connected in multiple ways.
"You're mine," he said. His voice was rough. Strained. Like the control was costing him. "Say it."
"I'm yours," I gasped. The words came easily. Naturally. Because they were true. "Yours, Daddy. Only yours."
His eyes went darker. His rhythm stuttered slightly. Then he found it again. That perfect pace that was pushing me steadily toward the edge.
I could feel my orgasm building. Slower this time than when his mouth had been on me. But inevitable. That coil tightening with each thrust. Each drag. Each perfect hit against that spot inside me.
"Daddy," I whimpered. Not begging yet. Just warning. Letting him know. "I'm getting close."
"I know," he murmured. "I can feel you. Feel you getting tighter. Feel your body trying to come."
His free hand slid between our bodies. Found my clit. Circled it with perfect pressure while he continued those slow deep thrusts.
