“No!” I gasp. “Just...go slow.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my ear, and before I could register what he means, his shaft breaks through my virginal barrier. I let out a cry, sinking my teeth into his shoulder.
He freezes, his body perfectly still. “I’m sorry, little mouse.” He kisses my forehead, then my temple. “I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t move as he waits for me to adjust to his size.
I nod when the pain becomes bearable and quickly realize he can’t see me, so I urge him with my hips. He starts to move, and after a few slow thrusts, the pain quickly turns into pleasure. Moans escape our lips as we lose ourselves in the pleasure.
“God, you’re so tight!” He groans, increasing his pace, but my brain is so fried that I can barely think of anything to say to that.
He continues to move, quick and hard. I slide my nails down his back toward his ass, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull his body closer to mine.
Zane’s pounding harder into me now, so hard I can feel him deep in my belly. He intertwines his fingers with mine then places both my hands above my head and settles into amaddeningly slow rhythm. His mouth closes around my left nipple, and I let out a choked cry.
I’m helpless against the waves of pleasure jolting through me. Just when I start to think it can’t get any better, Zane slides his right hand between our bodies, capturing my clitoris between his thumb and index finger.
“Oh Jesus!” I scream as the pressure becomes unbearable. My legs tremble under him and my heart speeds up. My breath starts coming out in quick pants, my stomach tightening even more. “Oh my god, Zane,” I choke. He continues to torment my nipple and pinch my clit as he fucks me with slow, deep strokes. “I’m going to…”
“Come with me baby,” he pants against my nipple. He sits up and releases my hands and clit only to grab my waist. He lifts my lower body up so my ass is no longer on the bed but higher toward him. My hands move everywhere, unsure of where to go. In the end, my left hand finds my left nipple while my right hand ferociously fondles my tender bundle of nerves. “Fuck,” he groans as he notices me pleasuring myself. My body trembles as I near my peak.
“Zane,” I moan.
“Come for me, baby,” he moans, thrusting deeper with each word. “Don’t hold back, little mouse.”
Suddenly, the pressure snaps, and I’m falling over the edge, my body trembling violently beneath him. I grind my teeth against the intense pressure of my walls contracting around his length.
“Fuck!” he shouts, letting out a guttural sound as his orgasm tears through him.
After what seems like an eternity of drowning in pleasure, he collapses beside me, panting hard.
Neither of us says anything because it feels like words are not enough at that moment—maybe not necessary.
I lay my head on his chest, wrapping my arms around his big frame, and as I drift to sleep, I mutter a simple prayer:
“Please, let him be here in the morning…”
But deep down, I know he won’t be.
Chapter Six
Zane
The first night with Georgia, and the two that follow, are the best nights of my life.
I finally got to touch her. To hold her while she slept. To wake up with her warm, soft body snuggled trustingly in my arms.
But it’s never simple.
It’s bittersweet in a way I didn’t expect, because just as she can’t see me, I can’t see her either. Not really. I know her face. I know her body. I’ve watched her move through her days, memorized the way she carries herself, the way she tilts her head when she’s thinking. But at night, in the dark, it’s different. She becomes sensation instead of image: heat, scent, sound, instinct.
I feel a twinge of guilt I can’t quite shake, because I know this is harder on her than it is on me. She’s probably dying with curiosity to know the man she’s been sleeping with. I haven’t even told her my last name. That was intentional. If she had it, she’d look me up. She’d find things I don’t want her to see—pictures, articles, a man who doesn’t exist anymore. I could maybe handle her seeing me as I am now. I’m not sure I could survive watching her mourn what I used to be.
She can’t compare me to a ghost if she never meets him.
That logic has kept me steady, but lately, it feels like a load of crap. Maybe because what we share defies logic.
We have fallen into a routine without ever discussing it. I come to her at night, after she’s turned off every light and pulled the heavy curtains closed. The apartment feels sealed off from the world then, like it exists just for us. I leave before sunrise, slipping out before she ever wakes up.
