"Yes," I breathe. "I want that, too."
He slides into me in one slow, devastating thrust, and it's everything. Stretch. Heat. Fullness. My breath catches, eyes locked on his as he settles deep.
"Jesus," he groans. "You feel... perfect."
I can't speak. I can only clutch at him as he begins to move, slow at first, then deeper, harder. Every thrustknocks sound loose from my lips, soft cries, gasps, his name like a mantra.
I feel his hands on me. One tangled in my hair, the other gripping my hip like he'll never let go.
And I don't want him to.
He leans down, forehead to mine. "Look at me. I want you to see who's touching you."
I do. And there's something in his expression that catches my breath. A vulnerability beneath the desire, a need that goes beyond the physical.
His thumb finds my clit again and rubs tight, coaxing me higher with every stroke, every thrust.
"Come with me," he grits, voice breaking.
The third orgasm builds differently than the others, a slow-rising tide rather than a sudden crash. When it breaks, it takes me under completely, my body clenching around him, pulling him deeper. I hear him groan my name, like it's the only word he remembers, as he follows me over the edge, his body shuddering against mine.
We collapse together, breath tangled, skin slick. He cradles me against his chest, both of us trembling with the aftershocks, too dazed to speak.
We stay joined for long moments afterward, both reluctant to separate. Finally, he rolls to the side, gathering me against his chest, one hand stroking lazily up and down my spine.
The silence between us is comfortable, intimate in a way I've never experienced before. I find myself tracing patterns on his chest, connecting his scars like a map.
We lie there, wrapped in each other, in the quiet aftermath of what we've just shared. But beneath the contentment, there's something else stirring in me. A need to share, to reciprocate the vulnerability and courage that he finally showed me.
"I need to tell you something," I say finally, my voice soft in the dim room. "About why I haven't been with anyone in so long."
He stills beneath me, his hand pausing on my back. "You don't have to explain anything to me."
"I want to," I insist, propping myself up on my elbow to look at him. "I need to."
His eyes search mine, and whatever he sees there makes him nod. "Okay. I'm listening."
I take a deep breath, gathering courage. "When I was younger, from about fourteen to sixteen, my manager... he abused me." The words are painful to push past my lips, like swallowing broken glass in reverse. "Not... not rape. He never went that far. But he would touch me. Make me touch him."
Ethan's body goes rigid beneath me, his jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscle jump. "Who?" The single word contains more menace than I've ever heard.
"His name was Charles Mercer." Even saying his name makes my skin crawl. "He discovered me at a mall when I was twelve, convinced my mother he could make me a star. And he did. But the price..." I swallow hard, fighting back the memories. "The price was too high."
"I'll kill him," Ethan says simply, the words flat and terrifyingly sincere.
"He's already dead," I tell him, placing a calming hand on his chest. "Three months after I got emancipated at sixteen, he had an overdose."
Some of the tension leaves his body, but his eyes remain hard. "Good."
"I felt relief when I heard," I admit, the confession both shameful and liberating. "Not just because he couldn't hurt me anymore, but because he couldn't hurt anyone else. I'd been afraid... afraid that if I came forward, no one would believe me. That I'd lose everything I'd worked for. That he'd just move on to another girl."
"You were a child," Ethan says fiercely. "None of it was your fault."
"I know that now," I say, though the truth is, some days I still struggle to believe it. "But for a long time, I felt that I could have done more for myself. To remove me from that situation. You see, the whole thing started sweet enough.He was like a father figure to me. His own daughter lived distant with her mother. But when she came to visit him, it was like the sister I never had. The four of us, him, my mother and Becky for a while we were like a new family that had found each other. But slowly, things started to change. His touching became more invasive. He started calling me..." I take a deep breath and whisper, "little doll."
I lift my gaze to him and see that he understands now. So I carry on, "Little by little I stopped feeling grateful to feel shame, disgust with myself, afraid that me and my mother would lose everything that we had..."
"Why didn't you tell your mother?" Ethan asks with hardly contained anger.
