"N- no?" I stutter.
He grins, it's sudden and beautiful, that spark of mischief he’s showing. "Downstairs. The ringer is off. I dinnae care what happens right now. Half of Scotland can fall into the sea and I dinnae give a shite. I've waited for so-.” He stops for a moment, composing himself. “I need to be inside ye."
This is not how I envisioned my first time with him at all. Whenever I’d imagined being with a man, it was always with him. It would be at night, I’d be wearing fancy lingerie, not a simple cotton bra and undies. There would be candles flickering, and maybe a fire. Music. Something sultry, like Norah Jones.
The moment is nothing like that. The house is silent, except for our breath and his pleased grunts as his tongue circles my belly button. The rare Edinburgh sun shining through the windows makes his bedroom so bright, and I'm a little shy that he can see everything so clearly. The scar I got on my hip from falling off my bicycle when I was eleven. The burn on my elbow from my rage baking spree last week.
His fingers leave my wrists to gently pull down my jeans and place a soft kiss over my undies before he pulls a squeal from me, sucking on my clitoris through the cotton. “Number two on your to-do list,” he says, “lift your hips, my sweet lass.”
I do, and the last barrier between me and him is gone, and the tip of his tongue is tracing along the slick line of my flesh, not greedy and sloppy like last night. With a firm precision, stroking along me, giving a pleased growl as he feels me grow wetter for him. His tongue is shockingly hot, and when it spears up inside me, I come again, his nose pressed against my clitoris, his five o’ clock shadow scraping along the thin skin of my thighs. A sweet, pleasurable assault in a way I've never felt before and one I cannot resist, one I can't defend against. One that I don't want to.
“So good,” he says, kissing his way back up. “So good for me, sweet lass.” His mouth is on mine again and I can feel his chin wet from me, rubbing against my skin and the taste of myself in my mouth.
“Let me,” I burst out. "Let me taste you now."
His forehead drops to my shoulder for a moment. “Not this time,” he says. “Not our first time or I'll be disappointing ye, coming like a 14-year-old boy. I need to be inside ye now."
The heat radiating from his huge body warms me as I slide my hands under his shirt, smoothing over the skin of his back. My fingertips feel the occasional scar as I try to pull his t-shirt off.
“Number three on your to-do list,” he says, “give me your mouth.” The feel of his lips and tongue, I suspect, are to distract me as he yanks down his sweatpants, just enough to pull himself out, tapping the head of his cock against my clitoris, grinning as I jump. “And number four on your list…” He nips my lower lip lightly. “Open for me, spread your legs wide.”
He helps me by nudging his hips between my thighs, pushing them apart and sliding one of my knees over his elbow, opening me. There’s a crinkle of torn foil and he shifts his hips, deftly rolling on a condom before I feel him at my entrance, hot and hard, silky and wet.
It'sa lot.
It's a lot to experience all at once and everything else fades at the feel of him sliding inside me slowly, hips sinuous and smooth, a bit at a time until he stops. Then with a sharp thrust, he pushes all to the top of me. I gasp, shocked, pained, the stretch stings and burns much more than I expected. The inexorable width of him stays wedged inside me as he stills his hips, looking down at me.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks, concerned. My mouth moves soundlessly, little goldfish-like gasps. I'm not sure what to say. He gives me a slightly rakish grin. “I'll go slow until you're ready,” he says. My tendons strain in my thighs from spreading wide, the heat radiating inside me rolling from a painful burn into a more pleasurable warmth, feeling softer. He must feel it too, as his hips start moving again, silence broken by ragged gasps until he whispers in my ear. “Your snug cunt is gripping me tight,” he rasps. “Like a fist wrapped in velvet. So perfect, ye are.”
My brain manages to bring itself back together from whatever far reaches of the universe where it had scattered, enough to feel something hard. Something even harder than his stiff flesh, rubbing against my walls, against my G spot that he’d found with his fingers and higher up still. When he pulls out to just the tip of him notched inside me, I look down and see a quick glimpse of silver.
“Are you? Is that? Is that apiercing?" I wheeze.
“Aye,” he chuckles. "It's for you, butterfly. All yours. And you are all mine."
Time seems to slow down. My focus narrows to the point between us where we meet, the hairy base of his cock, rubbing hard against my clit, that insane piercing, stroking against nerve endings inside me like sparks. When he thrusts hard up inside me it’s like a lightning strike. My fingers dig into the skin of his back as he chuckles, sliding his arm under my other knee and tilting my ass off the bed so he can push deeper and harder.
“Number four on your list, my organized girl, my proper lass,” he says, dark and diabolical and Michael the predator is back. “Ye come for me now. I want your wee moans and that gasp ye gave me last night when ye came on my fingers.”
The pain is back along with the heat and the pleasure and it turns into a whirlpool, a sensation that pulls me under. I cry out. Hoarse, wordless, wanting to say his name, wanting to tell him I've loved him forever, but all I manage is, “This. Yes, this. You."
He gives an answering groan. “My little butterfly. My sweet Sophie.”
One last vicious thrust, and I can feel his heat swell inside me as he comes. He's careful not to crush me, catching himself with his forearms. I can feel the wet cotton of his t-shirt, stretched over his chest, pressing against me as he heaves for air. I'm irrationally proud that I could make him feel this way. That I could make the urbane Michael MacTavish become this primitive thing.
Awareness returns, cool, and a little unpleasant, as he carefully pulls out of me, holding onto the condom before disposing of it quickly and pulling his sweats back up. Like last night, he's completely dressed and unruffled while I'm bare and wet, feeling a little exposed until he pulls back the covers and settles me between the sheets with a kiss. He goes into the bathroom briefly before returning with a damp cloth and I try to reach out for it, a little embarrassed.
“Oh, I can…" I start.
“Be still,” he interrupts me gently. “Be my good girl.” Pulling back the sheet, he frowns as he looks down at me. I glance too, groaning silently.
I was a virgin, but I didn't really expect to bleed like a delicate maiden in a Victorian novel. There’s a long smear of red, bright and accusatory against his snowy white sheets.
"This was your first time." He says it like a statement, not a question.
I want to cover my face with my hands and cringe, but I force myself to look at him. “Yes."
Michael’s calloused fingertips are against my cheek, gentle. “I wish I’d known,” he says, looking troubled. “I was too rough for your first time.”
