He pushes forward—just the tip—and my body resists. Instinctively clenching against the intrusion even as I'm slickand ready from everything that came before. The wetness from his mouth, from my own arousal, eases the way but doesn't eliminate the strangeness of it.
"Relax," he breathes. "Let me in,cara."
I try. Consciously unclenching, opening, and he advances another inch. The stretch burns, a deep, unfamiliar pressure that rolls through me, not quite pain but intense and demanding, overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.
"You okay?" His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding still.
"Don't stop." My nails dig into his shoulders. "Please don't stop."
He withdraws a fraction—just enough to let my body breathe—then pushes forward again in a slow, steady glide. Another inch claimed. Then another. Each slow thrust teaches my body what to do, how to take him… how to want more.
"So tight," he grits out. "Charity, you're—fuck—"
Then the last resistance yields, and with a flare of pain that morphs into pleasure, he sinks deep—finally, completely—and we both freeze.
The fullness is shocking. Overwhelming. I'm stretched impossibly around him, every nerve ending screaming awareness. He's inside me. We're joined. Two bodies becoming one in the most primal, sacred way possible.
"Okay?" His voice is wrecked.
"Move," I whisper. "Please move."
He answers with a careful roll of his hips—a slow retreat, then a measured slide back in, deliberate and gentle.
And oh—
"Yes." The word escapes on a moan. "Like that. Exactly like that."
The discomfort melts with each slow pulse forward, replaced by friction and heat and a pleasure that builds in steady, insistent waves. My body adjusts, welcomes, wraps around him, claims him right back. What started as conquest becomes a slow, hungry dance.
"More," I demand. "Harder."
"Don't hold back," I gasp. "Please. I want all of you."
The gladiator unleashes.
He drives into me with controlled power—deep and steady and relentless. The bed frame protests with each thrust, headboard tapping the wall in rhythm with our bodies. Each hard stroke sends pleasure spiraling through me, the angle hitting places I didn't know existed, nerve endings lighting up like fireworks.
I arch to meet him, matching his rhythm, and the shift makes him go deeper still. I cry out—wordless, overwhelmed—and he swallows the sound with a kiss that's all tongue and teeth and desperation.
His hand slides between us, finds where we're joined, and when his fingers circle that sensitive bundle of nerves, I nearly come apart on the spot.
"Not yet," he growls. "Wait for me."
The dual sensation—him inside me, fingers working my clit—is almost too much. I'm drowning in it, lost in the slide and stretch and perfect friction of him claiming me over and over.
Sweat slicks our skin. Our breathing is ragged, punctuated by moans and gasps and my name falling from his lips like a prayer. The pleasure builds impossibly higher, coiling tighter in my core until I'm shaking with the need for release.
"Draco—" His name breaks. "I can't—"
"You can." He drives deeper, harder, fingers relentless. "Come for me, Charity. Let me feel you."
The command in his voice, the authority—it shouldn't be hot, but it is. Everything about him is hot. The way he fills me completely. The way his muscles flex with each powerful thrust. The way he's looking at me as though I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
My body tightens around him, pleasure cresting, and his rhythm falters for just a second before he regains control. Driving into me with renewed intensity, angle shifted, so every stroke drags across that perfect spot inside.
"That's it," he rasps. "Feel me. Feel what you do to me."
I do feel it—the tremor in his arms, the raggedness of his breathing, the way he's barely holding himself together. This powerful man is undone by me. By us.
