He withdraws his fingers and positions himself at my entrance. I feel the blunt head of him pressing against me, seeking entry, and my heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. His face is inches from mine, his gaze intense, burning with something I can't name. The tattoos on his arms frame my vision, dark patterns against pale skin.
"I'm going to go slow," he says. "If it hurts too much, tell me. We can stop whenever you want."
"I don't want to stop."
"I know. But the offer stands." He kisses me softly. "Ready?"
"Yes."
He pushes forward.
The pressure is intense—stretching, burning, my body struggling to accommodate something it's never taken before. I gasp, my hands flying to his arms, gripping the inked skin hard enough to leave marks.
"Breathe," he says. "Look at me and breathe."
I force myself to inhale, to exhale, to focus on his eyes instead of the discomfort. He eases forward another inch, then stops, giving me time to adjust. His jaw is clenched, sweat beading on his brow, the effort of holding back written in every line of his body.
"More," I whisper.
He gives me more. Slowly, inexorably, he sinks into me until his hips are flush with mine and I've taken all of him.
We stay there, frozen, connected in the most intimate way possible. The pain has faded to a dull ache, overwhelmed by the sense of fullness, of completeness. Like a piece of me that was missing has finally slotted into place.
"You feel incredible," he breathes. "Better than I imagined. Better than anything."
"Move," I tell him. "Please move."
He does.
The first stroke is slow, careful—almost all the way out, then back in. I feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, my body gripping him like it never wants to let go. The second stroke is a little faster, a little deeper. By the third, I'm meeting his rhythm, my hips rising to match his thrusts.
"That's it," he groans. "God, Bianca, you're perfect. You're—"
He buries his face in my neck, his hips snapping faster, harder. The bed creaks beneath us. The rain continues to fall outside, a percussive backdrop to the sounds of our bodies coming together.
The pleasure builds again—different this time, deeper, centered where we're joined. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, taking him deeper. His hand slides between us, finding my clit, working it in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me," he demands. "Come with me inside you."
The orgasm hits me like a freight train—harder than the first, more consuming. I scream his name, my body clenching around him, and I feel him follow me over the edge. His rhythm stutters, his whole body tensing, and then he's spilling inside me with a groan that sounds like surrender.
We collapse together, tangled and sweating, our hearts pounding in unison.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. We just breathe, holding each other, letting the aftershocks ripple through our bodies. His weight is heavy on me, but I don't want him to move. I want to stay here forever, wrapped in him, the rain falling outside and the world held at bay.
Then he lifts his head and looks at me. His expression is open in a way I've never seen—vulnerable, almost wounded.
"I don't deserve you," he says again.
"Maybe not." I reach up and trace the line of his jaw, feeling the stubble beneath my fingertips. "But you have me anyway."
He rolls onto his side, pulling me with him, keeping us connected. His hand strokes down my spine, soothing,possessive. The tattoos on his arm wrap around me like a second embrace.
"Are you okay?" he asks quietly. "Did I hurt you?"
