He lifted his head, and my hand dropped. He smiled, placed a quick kiss on my hip bone, and crawled up to me.
He kissed me again, and when I winced, he murmured, “I taste and smell like you.” His eyes darkened. “You’re so wet and so ready now.” He gripped the back of my neck and kissed me until I was lightheaded all over again.
Dizzy or not, I tugged at his jeans, desperate to get them off him, but Owen reached into his pocket first, pulling out something before pushing them down completely, along with his boxers.
He held up the little red packet. “Protection,” he said, tearing it open with his teeth.
A fresh wave of heat rolled through me at the way he handled it—at how sure and experienced he was, how naturally he moved, how he made me feel safe and wanted at the same time. My entire body thrummed with anticipation as I watched him slide the condom on, his movements practiced, confident.
I reached out again, needing to touch him, to feel what it felt like now. The latex was smooth, slightly slick. I knew we had to use it, but part of me ached to know what it would have felt like without it—to feel Owen bare inside me instead of wrapped in something that felt like a barrier between us.
Owen settledbetween my legs, his body fitting against mine like it had always belonged there. His mouth found mine again, slow and deep, stealing the breath from my lungs.
“Ready?” he asked, his voice gravelly.
I nodded, my heart hammering.
“We’ll take it slow, move forward when you’re ready. If you want me to stop, just tell me—or squeeze my hand, anything. Okay?” He wet his lips, his gaze searching mine.
I could see it then—the weight of what I was asking him to do. The responsibility. The trust I had placed in him. He was fully aware of it.
Then I felt him at my entrance, a gentle pressure against flesh already hypersensitive from everything he had just done to me. Owen held my gaze as he pushed forward, inch by inch. It was okay at first, and then—it stung.
My eyes must have fluttered because he stopped.
“No, please go on,” I said, my voice breathy, urgent.
He pushed a little further in. “You’re so wet, but so damn tight,” he rasped, and I wondered how he controlled himself like this.
“It stings just a bit,” I admitted.
He eased in deeper, and this time, the discomfort sharpened. But I didn’t want him to stop.
Noticing my quickened breaths, he stilled.
“Please,” I whispered.
He pushed further, stretching me in a way that sent a flash of pain up my body. He was deep, but I could tell he wasn’t all the way in yet.
I bit my lower lip, and his gaze flicked to my mouth.
“Maybe we shouldstop now,” he said, as if reading my unspokenAre we there yet?
“No,” I shook my head. “I want to go all the way.”
His expression softened for just a second before he bent down, catching my lips in a slow, deep kiss. His tongue tangled with mine, coaxing, unraveling, distracting. His hand trailed between us, cupping and kneading my breast, wetting me all over again. My body melted into his, the tension in my muscles easing just enough.
Then, with a longer thrust, he pushed all the way in.
The sting flared sharp, but beneath it was something else—the heady, dizzying awareness that he was fully inside me now, that we had crossed it together. I felt the press of his pelvis against mine, the solid heat of him buried deep.
Owen kissed my neck as he pulled back, then slid into me again—this time, not as slow, not as sharp. Another thrust. And another. The pain still lingered, but I focused on everything else: the sound of his breath catching, the quiet groans against my skin, the feel of his back muscles working under my fingers as I ran my hands down to his firm ass.
His pace shifted, his control hanging by a thread. I could tell he was containing himself to not go too fast or too hard,
“God, Rio, you’re so tight,” he gritted out. His breath was ragged. “If it hurts too much ...”
“Don’t stop,” I whispered against his ear.
