For the first time in hours, I feel my lungs open. I kiss him again, slower and deeper, giving him every word I can’t say and every feeling I can’t express. His lips part under mine, and I slide my tongue along his, swallowing the rough sound he makes. My hands move to his shoulders, then down his chest, feeling the tension in him, the way it vibrates under my palms. He’s holding himself back. He’s afraid to hurt me.
That’s not what I want at all. I don’t want or need him to be so gentle. I need him inside me, under me and then above me, all around me, touching every part of me. This is what we’re good at. This is the language we both speak fluently.
I tug at his shirt until he lifts his arms and lets me pull it off. His skin is warm under my hands. His breath catches when my fingers trail down the line of muscle beneath his ribs. I feel the hitch in his lungs, the way he shivers when I press my mouth to his throat and taste the salt of his skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, his voice frayed at the edges. “If you’re just doing this because you’re afraid, then tell me to stop.”
“I’m not,” I whisper against his pulse. “I’m doing this because I want to. Because I need to.”
He exhales slowly, shakily, and I feel the moment he gives in. His hands slide up my back, firm and strong, pulling me closer until our bodies meet in a desperate press of heat and need. I grind down against him, and his breath breaks out of him in a harsh, guttural sound that sends a tremor through me.
I kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then lower, my lips tracing the path of his breath. When I reach the place beneath his ear, he inhales sharply and grips my hips.
“Let me look at you,” he whispers, pulling away only slightly.
I let the towel fall to the floor. His eyes sweep over me with such raw emotion that it feels like another form of touch. I take his hands and place them on my hips, guiding him the way I want. His fingers dig into my skin, hungry but restrained.
I kiss him again and grab his hand, placing it where I need it. His breath leaves him in labored spurts.
“You want control,” he says quietly, understanding dawning in his voice.
“Yes.”
He nods once, slowly, and leans back against the mattress, offering himself to me in a way that feels more intimate than any touch we’ve shared. He doesn’t guide me. He lets me move, lets me set the pace, lets me take what I need.
I lift his chin so he’s looking directly at me when I sink down onto him. He inhales sharply, his hands gripping the duvet so tightly his knuckles turn white. I move slowly at first, testing my balance, testing the way my body feels around him. The stretch is grounding. The heat is grounding. The weight of him inside me is grounding.
He groans low in his throat, the sound rough and choked.
“Molly,” he breathes, “you’re shaking.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I answer honestly.
“Tell me what you need.”
“You,” I whisper, sinking down fully and biting my lip at the sensation. “Just you. Right now.”
His hands lift and rest on my thighs, barely touching, letting me decide if I want more pressure or less. I move slowly at first, finding a rhythm that steadies the trembling in my limbs. Every time I lift my hips and sink back down, the fear inside me loosens its grip a little more.
He watches me with reverence so intense it borders on pain.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice hoarse.
I press my fingers to his lips to keep him silent. I don’t want his words right now. I just want his body. I roll my hips and his breath breaks in a sharp, quiet gasp. He grips my thighs harder, anchoring me to him.
My pleasure builds slowly, a soft, pulsing warmth that grows with every thrust. His eyes never leave mine. The connection feels so fierce, so overwhelming, that I almost want to look away. Almost.
Instead, I remind myself that this isn’t love. This is just sex. All this will ever be is sex. When I start to tremble again, this time for a completely different reason, he grips my hips to steady me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent. “You can let go.”
So I do. The climax hits me like a wave, sudden and overwhelming. My breath catches and a soft cry escapes before I can swallow it. My hands fly to his shoulders, holding on as the pleasure crashes through me, shaking the fear loose from my bones. He groans when he feels me tighten around him, his own release following a moment later, deep and shuddering.
I collapse against his chest, breathing hard. His arms wrap around me carefully, cautiously, like he’s afraid I’ll break. Maybe I will. Just for now, though, I let him hold me and pretend that everything is normal.
27
SAMUIL
