"The disaster who's currently two knuckles deep and making me see colors that don't exist in the visible spectrum," I gasp, my hips rolling against his hand, chasing pressure that's almost but not quite enough. My medical brain kicks in uninvited—calculating surface area of skin contact, probability of fluid transfer, the exact angle that's making my cervix send thank-you cards to his dick that hasn't even arrived yet. "More. I need—"
"I know," he says again, adding a third finger, and the stretch burns perfect. "Been thinking about this. About how you'd feel.How you'd sound." His voice drops lower, gravel and smoke. "How you'd taste."
Before I can process that, he's sliding down my body, replacing his thumb with his tongue, and my back arches off the bed hard enough to qualify as a medical event. The first swipe of his tongue has me grabbing his hair, probably pulling hard enough to cause follicle damage, but he just groans against me like that's exactly what he wanted.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" My vocabulary has devolved to single syllables while he works me with fingers and tongue, finding a rhythm that has my thighs shaking, my breath coming in pants that definitely indicate respiratory distress. "I'm going to—already—it's too—"
"Good girl," he murmurs against me, and the vibration of his voice combined with his fingers curling just right has me shattering. "Come for me. Let me taste it."
The first orgasm rips through me like lightning finding ground—violent, electric, leaving me shaking and gasping while he works me through it, drawing out aftershocks until I'm pushing at his shoulders, oversensitive and desperate. My medical brain is calculating exactly how fucked I am in peer-reviewed percentages: 98% physically, 127% emotionally, 200% reproductively if we don't start making better choices immediately.
"Condom," I gasp, my body already clenching around nothing, empty and aching despite just coming. "Now. Before my last functioning brain cell remembers why this is a terrible idea."
He pulls back, and his face is wrecked—lips swollen, chin wet with me, pupils blown so wide his eyes look black. "You sure?"
"I'm a nurse who's been sexting a dangerous man for weeks while lying to my entire family. My decision-making paradigm is clearly fucked. Yes, I'm sure. Enthusiastically, catastrophically sure."
When he turns back to me, I finally see him fully—thick enough to promise that stretch I'm craving, curved slightly upward like a goddamn architectural marvel designed by someone who understood female anatomy, the head flushed dark purple with want. My body clenches in anticipation, already calculating the physics of accommodation.
"How do you want—"
"I want to ride you," I interrupt, because if we're doing this, I'm taking control first. "I want to set the pace until my thighs give out or my sanity returns."
His pupils dilate to dangerous levels—definitely 8mm, approaching medical significance. "Good girl. Take what you need. Take everything."
We rearrange, him on his back, me straddling him. I can feel him pressed against my entrance, hot and hard, and my body ismaking executive decisions without consulting management. I rise up, position him, and start to sink down—slow, controlled, feeling every single millimeter as he breaches me.
The stretch is exquisite—that perfect edge between too much and just right. I have to pause halfway, breathing through it, my thighs trembling with the effort of going slow. My cervix is already composing sonnets about the invasion.
"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping my hips, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough that I'll have bruises tomorrow—purple-blue reminders I'll press in the shower like evidence of my poor choices. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect. Been dreaming about this."
"Just dreams?" I manage, sinking down another inch, feeling my body adjust, accommodate, reshape itself around him like we're conducting a live anatomy lesson.
"Dreams. Fantasies. Fully plotted scenarios with multiple positions and a very happy ending." His thumb finds my clit, circles it gently. "Though reality is definitely exceeding expectations."
I sink down the rest of the way in one smooth motion, and we both groan—him deep and guttural, me high and desperate. I can feel him everywhere, stretching me full in a way that borders on transcendent. My cervix actually twinges—a sharp-sweet pain that makes me gasp, the kind of deep pressure that suggests we're about to conduct reproductive experiments my nursing degree strongly advises against.
"You okay?" he asks immediately, going still.
"More than okay. That was my cervix saying hello and possibly planning your children." I roll my hips experimentally, and his eyes actually roll back. "Apparently she approves of your genetic material."
I start moving properly then, finding a rhythm that has the headboard tapping against the wall like a metronome for bad decisions. He watches me with that intensity that started this whole catastrophe, his hands mapping my body—breasts, waist, hips, thighs—like he's memorizing the topography for future reference. My medical brain won't shut up, calculating friction coefficients and noting that his refractory period is going to be approximately twelve minutes based on his age and cardiovascular health.
"So fucking beautiful," he growls, sitting up suddenly so we're chest to chest. The angle change has him hitting my G-spot directly, and I actually see stars—not metaphorical ones, actual phosphenes caused by pressure on the optic nerve via orgasmic response. "My beautiful disaster."
"Not yours," I protest even as I clench around him, even as my body calls me a liar in seventeen different languages including the universal language of terrible reproductive choices.
"No?" He flips us suddenly—smooth, controlled—and now he's on top, driving deeper, and the first thrust has me grabbing at his shoulders, nails definitely breaking skin barrier. "Then whyare you here? Why are you taking my cock like you were made for it?"
"Because I make terrible life choices with the confidence of someone who has excellent insurance," I gasp, but my legs are wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper, changing the angle so he hits that spot that makes my neurons misfire in patterns that probably violate several laws of physics. "Because my risk assessment is broken. Because—oh fuck, right there—"
"Because you're mine," he corrects, punctuating each word with a thrust that has the headboard slamming now, definitely leaving dents in the wall that'll require spackle and a security deposit sacrifice. "Say it."
"I'm—I'm—" But I can't finish because the second orgasm is building, slower than the first, deeper, starting in my spine and spreading outward like contrast dye in a CT scan, highlighting every nerve ending.
"Good girl," he murmurs when I start meeting his thrusts, my hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction with the dedication of someone pursuing a terminal degree in poor choices. "Take it. Take all of me."
The second orgasm doesn't hit—it detonates. I'm vaguely aware that I'm screaming something that might be his name or might be speaking in tongues, my body clenching around him so hard he has to stop moving, just holds himself deep while I shake apart. I can feel tears on my cheeks—not from sadness but from pure sensory overload, from feelings too big for my body, fromthe knowledge that I'm definitely going to do this again without protection because I have the impulse control of a toddler in a candy store.
