"I want to see all of you, River," he murmurs.
The words are both a comfort and a command.
He continues to touch me, his hands skimming my body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Every nerve ending feels like it's on fire, and when his hand moves between my legs, I'm already slick and ready.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs in awe.
I can't speak. I can only arch against him, seeking more.
He climbs down my body, his movements deliberate, almost ceremonial. He hooks his arms under my knees and drags me forward, baring me even further.
"Don't fight it," he groans, his voice a low rumble. "Give yourself over to it. Surrender."
His head dips between my thighs, and I gasp; a strangled, choked sound. His tongue finds me in a relentless, merciless exploration. My entire body is shaking, and I can't stop myself from reaching down, and tangling my fingers in his hair. He responds with a soft, approving hum that sends a shiver of pleasure up my spine.
"Please," I gasp, the word a plea, a demand, a surrender.
"What do you need, little artist?"
"I... I need you inside me," I manage, my cheeks burning with the admission.
The words are a key. He moves in a fluid, graceful motion. "As you wish."
He pauses, his gaze heavy, searching my face as he positions himself between my thighs. "Do you trust me?"
My own breath hitches before I nod, my eyes locked on his. "Yes," I whisper.
"Good." His hands grip my hips. "Hold on to the headboard. Don't let go."
I reach up, my hands wrapping around the cool, smooth wood. He positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head of him pressing against me. Then he begins to push inside with a slow, inexorable invasion. This isn't the same as before. The pain is still there, a sharp, aching sting, but it's different. It's not an act of possession. It's an act of worship.
He watches my face as he enters me in a slow, deliberate process. His brow is furrowed in concentration, as if he's committing every reaction, every gasp, every tremor to memory.
"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice rough.
I can only nod, my knuckles white where I'm gripping the headboard. The fullness is overwhelming, a pressure that borders on pain but beneath it a deeper, darker pleasure is beginning to stir.
"Relax," he murmurs, his hands stroking my thighs. "Let me in."
And I do. I force myself to unclench, to breathe, to surrender. And in that moment of surrender, something shifts. The pain recedes, and the pleasure surges in a hot, delicious tide. He must feel it because a slow, triumphant smile touches his lips.
"There it is," he growls, and he begins to move.
His thrusts are measured at first, a slow, deep rhythm that builds a fire in my core. He is not just taking me, he is teaching me the language of my own body. He is showing me pleasure, my pleasure, through his. He holds my gaze the entire time in a silent, unbreakable connection.
But the control doesn't last. His pace quickens, his movements becoming more erratic, more demanding. His hands tighten on my hips, pulling me deeper onto him, harder.
"Look at you," he grunts, his voice raw with need. "Fucking perfect. So tight, so wet. You were made for this, River. Made for me."
The words are a catalyst, sending a fresh wave of arousal through me. My own body betrays me, my hips rising to meet his in a desperate, primal rhythm. I am no longer a passive participant. I am an active, willing participant in my own defilement.
"Tell me what you want," he demands, his thrusts becoming punishing.
"More," I gasp, the word a broken sob.
His smile is a flash of white teeth in the dim light. "Greedy girl. You're going to take everything I have to give you, aren't you?"
"Yes," I moan, my head thrown back, my eyes closed.
