It’s not enough to have her here, captive in my apartment. Not enough to know that in a few days’ time, we’ll be wed. She’s mine. I need to show him that. Show the world. Take her and make sure that whatever else happens, no one can steal this away from me.
I strip, tossing my clothes into a pile on the floor, not caring that my twenty-thousand-dollar suit lies wrinkling on the carpet.
Crimson hesitates over the first button on her blouse. Her eyes are wary, body hunching in on itself. Like I’m a monster. Someone to fear. The bloody murderer that everyone’s determined to lock away.
I grab the top of her blouse, and my need overtakes any caution I have left. I pull at the buttons so some of them tear the holes wider rather than undoing. The moment enough are free, I pull the garment over her head, tossing it behind me.
Her chest heaves up and down, the rosy glow from her face leaking down to stain the creamy flesh of her neck, her shoulders, the top of her breasts.
I reach my arms around her, undo the bra strap, scrape the straps off her shoulders.
She’s trying to help, maybe anxious to appease me. I don’t know, don’t care. My movements overtake her cautious endeavours. I attack her jeans next. Once the top button is loose, I push her back on my bed.
When my fumbling fingers miss the zipper, I pull it apart instead. Tearing the teeth from each other and tugging the material down. Dragging the tight fabric off her legs, her underwear coming with it until it’s down around her knees, easy to pull free.
Her hands land on my chest, the pressure increasing as I move up her body. “Can I just—?”
My mouth slams onto hers. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t want to be talked out of doing exactly what I want to do.
It feels like years since I sunk myself into a willing woman, felt that wet warmth wrapped around my cock. I haven’t been with anyone since before I went to jail, had lost interest in my paid partners with their multitude of tricks even before they locked me away.
But now I can’t hold back, not when Crimson is laying here in all her glorious inexperience. Completely docile beneath me.
I reach down, tapping on her inner thighs until she parts her legs. I don’t pull back to look into her face, read her expression. Just keep her mouth occupied by mine to stop any protestations.
Her hands are still against my chest, the wrists limp. Not pushing me away any longer but trapped there by my weight.
When I tear myself away from her lips and fasten on one gorgeous breast instead, she makes a soft whimper. I cover the other tit with my hand, squeezing and tugging at the nipple until she makes a soft cry. Pain or pleasure, I can’t tell.
I swap sides, tasting her strawberry scented body wash. The faint tang of salt rounds out the flavour, like the most delicious amuse bouche.
And just like an appetiser, it’s not enough. My body hungers for more.
I raise her coiled hands and place them above her head, holding them there with one hand clutching her wrists.
The other hand, I slide between her legs. Her thighs clench at first, then relax and I slip my finger inside. She’s wet but not enough, and I reach over to the bedside cabinet, roughly opening the drawer and feeling around for a bottle of lube.
It pains me to take my hands off her, but I spend the few seconds required to squirt a generous portion into my right hand, reaching down and spreading it across and inside her pussy before stroking myself, oiling up before I guide my tip to her entrance.
For a second, I pause there, staring down at her lush body. My hand returns to clasp her wrists, stretching her arms above her head so her breasts pull higher. I meant to take it slow, wanted to worship every inch of her untouched flesh.
I could still stop now.
Then my need overrides all thought, and I thrust inside.
She cries out, and I put a hand over her mouth, my forehead resting against hers as I stay where I am, letting her untested muscles get used to me, get used to my size.
I pull back, then slowly insert my length again, making her take all of it. Every inch. Losing my mind at how good it feels.
Crimson snuffles a breath in through her nose, and I pull my hand away, replacing it a second later with my lips. My tongue dominates her mouth while I plunge into her body again, her muscles squeezing so tightly around my cock that I almost give in and come inside her, on a hair trigger. An urgency I haven’t felt since I was a teenage boy.
I pause, letting the wave ebb, then I draw back and thrust into Crimson’s body again and my lust resurges.
“You feel so good,” I whisper as she turns her head and I’m speaking directly into her ear. “You make me feel so good.”
Then I close my eyes, giving over to the sensations as I chase the release I’ve been denied for too long. My fingers twist into her hair, tugging it free of the elastic she’s using to restrain it. I bury my face into her neck, sucking and grazing my teeth along her skin, inhaling her scent.
She utters a small cry as I increase the pace of my thrusts, no longer caring if I’m close, if I’m about to come. No one’s judging. This isn’t performance art.
