“Why not?”
“Because it makes me want to do very bad things to you.”
“Maybe I want you to.”
He groans, low and rough, and then he’s settling between my thighs, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance. The contact alone makes me gasp—hot, blunt pressure against bare skin that’s never been touched like this.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I meet his eyes—those baby blues are nearly black now with desire.
“I’m going to go slow,” he says. “But it might hurt. You’re so fucking tight, and I’m—” He laughs, a little self-deprecating. “Not small.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“If it’s too much, tell me. We stop. Got it?”
I nod, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He flexes his hips and pushes forward.
The first inch steals my breath. He’s thick, and my body resists instinctively, muscles clenching against the intrusion. There’s pressure, stretching, despite how wet I am, and then a sharp sting that makes me hiss.
“Breathe.” His voice is strained, his arms trembling with the effort of holding still. “That’s it, darlin’. Just breathe for me.”
I force air into my lungs, force my muscles to relax. He sinks another inch, and the sting intensifies—a burning stretch that hovers on the edge of pain. I bite my lip, tasting iron.
“You’re doing so well.” He presses kisses to my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. “Taking me so well. Just a little more.”
Another inch. Another. The fullness is overwhelming, bordering on too much. I feel split open, invaded, remade around the shape of him. My thighs are trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips—I can feel the fine shake in the muscles, the strain of holding myself open for him. Tears prick at my eyes; not from pain exactly, but from the sheer intensity of it all.
“Almost there.” His forehead drops to mine, his breath hot against my lips. I can feel the sweat where our skin meets, the slide of his chest against mine with each careful movement. “Almost—fuck?—”
He bottoms out, his hips flush against mine, and we both go still.
I’ve never felt anything like this. The stretch, the pressure, the impossible intimacy of having someoneinside me, something I never thought I would have without tragedy. I can feel his pulse through his cock, can feel the twitch and throb of him buried so deep, it feels like he’s touching my spine. My inner walls flutter around him involuntarily, adjusting, and I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“You okay?” he murmurs roughly.
“Yes.” It comes out reedy and thin. “Just—give me a second.”
He holds perfectly still, trembling with restraint while I adjust to the sensation. I’m hyperaware of everything—the cool air on my heated skin, the dampness at my temples, theway my fingers have gone numb where they’re gripping his shoulders. The burn is fading now, replaced by something else—a fullness that’s starting to feel less like invasion and more like…completion. Like a key sliding into a lock, puzzle pieces falling into place.
I shift my hips experimentally, and we both moan.
“Oh God,” I cry out softly.
“At your service.”
“More,” I manage. “Please, more.”
“Thank fuck.” He pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, the drag of him against my walls making me whimper. I feel every inch of the withdrawal, the friction lighting up nerve endings I didn’t know I had. Then, he pushes back in, a little faster, and I arch off the bed.
“Oh—”
Oh.
“That’s it.” He sets a slow, deep rhythm, each thrust hitting something inside me that sends sparks shooting through my veins. “Feel that? Feel how well you take me?”
