He was slow with his kisses.
And when she was frantic for him, he was strong as he pressed her thighs apart.
She gripped him with her knees, and she pressed her slick center up around him. He held himself back so she could only strain.
“Please, Max.”
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“I love you,” he echoed.
For tonight.
He thrust.
She welcomed him in.
And then she felt the pain.
Shock made her cry out. He froze, his face tight with horror.
She remembered, belatedly, what this was. As a rule, whores did not talk about the pain of the first time. Only of faking such a thing. And so she had forgotten about it or perhaps chose not to remember. And the dismay on Max’s face was enough to erase the physical discomfort.
“I am fine,” she said, her breath shallow. “You are…large.”
“You are a virgin?” he asked.
She did not know the English word, but she guessed. “I am new.” Or she had been.
He dropped his forehead to hers. Then he pressed a kiss to her cheek and neck. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t think it was possible. You were a prisoner.”
“I was a gift to the king. No one could touch me.”
“I should have known,” he said. “I should have asked.”
Now his worry for her made sense. Now his care to not hurt her became clearer. He thought she’d been brutalized, but she had been pure.
Meanwhile, her body adjusted. As he pressed kisses to her face, she felt less shock, more fullness. The tiny movements he made soon felt good rather than too much. And as her breath returned, so did her desire.
She lifted her knees, drawing her thighs up along his.
He groaned as he arched, drawing out by the slowest degrees.
“No,” she said. “Don’t go!”
She tried to grip him, to keep him with her.
“I can’t stop,” he said as he tilted his hips, pushing inside her again. It was the tiniest of movements, but she felt it. She wanted it.
“Yes. Again.”
Whether because of her words or because he must, he drew back again. A little farther this time before his thrust. Her back arched, her legs widened, and she opened herself completely to his penetration.
“Yihui,” he said. There was no meaning behind the word. No command. Just her name as he thrust into her again.
“Max,” she echoed as she learned his tempo.
