When I come back to myself, he's kissing his way up my stomach, my ribs, my breasts. His body settles over mine, his weight a comfort rather than a constraint. I can feel him through his remaining clothes—hard, straining, wanting.
"You're beautiful when you come," he says, his voice rough. "I've imagined it so many times. The reality is better."
I reach for his belt again, and this time he doesn't stop me. My fingers work the buckle free, then the button of his pants, then the zipper. He helps me push the fabric down his hips, kicking it off the bed, and then he's as naked as I am.
I look at him—really look. The tattoos continue down his sides, across his hips, disappearing beneath the V of muscle that leads my eyes lower. His body is hard, sculpted by years of violence and discipline. The ink seems to move in the low light, shadows and shapes I want to trace with my fingers, my tongue, my lips.
And his cock—thick, heavy, intimidating in a way that makes my stomach clench with equal parts desire and nervousness.
He sees my expression and goes still.
"We can stop," he says. "Whenever you want, we can stop."
"I don't want to stop."
"Bianca." He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Have you done this before?"
The question hangs between us. I could lie. Could pretend experience I don't have, save myself the embarrassment of admitting the truth.
But I'm tired of lies. Tired of pretending. If we're going to do this, I want it to be real.
"No," I whisper. "Not... not all the way."
Something flashes across his face—surprise, then understanding, then something fierce and possessive that makes my breath catch.
"You waited," he says. Not a question.
"I didn't mean to. I didn't even realize I was doing it. But every time someone else touched me, it felt wrong. It felt like betrayal, even though you'd left, even though I had no reason to be loyal to a man who'd disappeared without explanation." I swallow hard. "It was always you. Even when I hated you, it was always you."
He closes his eyes, his jaw tight, something trembling through his body that might be restraint or might be emotion or might be both.
"Bianca." My name comes out broken. "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."
"Probably not." I pull his face down to mine. "But you have me anyway. So stop talking and show me what I've been waiting for."
He kisses me—softer this time, deeper. His hand slides between us, fingers finding my entrance, testing my readiness. I'm slick, swollen, still sensitive from the orgasm. When he pushes one finger inside me, I gasp into his mouth.
"You're so tight," he murmurs. "I need to prepare you. I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't."
"I might. The first time—"
"I know what the first time involves." I arch into his touch. "I'm a medical student, remember? I know the anatomy."
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Then you know I need to be careful."
He adds a second finger, stretching me slowly, and I feel my body resisting and then yielding. It's not painful—not exactly—but it's intense. Foreign. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his tattooed skin, and try to relax.
"That's it," he breathes. "Just let me in."
His thumb finds my clit, circling in slow, maddening strokes, and the tension begins to build again. By the time he adds a third finger, I'm rocking against his hand, chasing the sensation, my nervousness forgotten.
"Please," I hear myself beg. "Misha, please—"
"Please what?"
"I need you inside me. I need—"
