Another inch. The stretch is more than his fingers and the burn is there, the one I expected, and I breathe through it and his eyes never leave mine.
"Still okay?"
"Yeah, more."
Another inch. The burn fades into warmth. The fullness builds. He's above me, watching my face, reading every expression, stopping at every breath that catches.
He's holding himself up on his arms, careful with his weight, and I am looking up at his face. His beautiful face is right here—inches from mine, open and terrified.
I love him so much it overwhelms me.
"You want me to stop?" he whispers.
"Don't you dare stop. Keep going."
A couple more careful thrusts and he slides in fully. And for a moment we both stop breathing. He's inside me. Completely. And what floods through me is not pain and not just pleasure. It's safety. The most counterintuitive safety I've ever felt.
This man is inside me and above me and his arms are on either side of my head and I have never in my life felt this safe. His body surrounding mine. His face above mine. His arms not trapping me in but keeping everything else out.
He always tells me he's got me, and now he really does.
This is where I want to be.
There is only Tex, above me, inside me, looking at me like I am the most precious thing he has ever been trusted to hold.
"Oh my God," he whispers. His forehead drops to mine. Our noses touch. His breath is warm on my face and his eyes are inches from mine and they're wet. "Stormy, you feel so fucking perfect."
"I'm good," I say. "It's good. I want this. You can move now."
He moves. Slow. A withdrawal and a return that is careful and gentle and sets a pace that my body can follow. The rhythm is gentle and my body adjusts to it, opens around it, finds the pleasure in it.
His hand reaches between us. He wraps his fingers around my cock and strokes in time with his movements. His mouth finds mine and he kisses me while he moves inside me.
I am surrounded by him.
The pleasure arrives in waves. A shift in angle that sends a spark through my spine. A deeper stroke that hits the place his fingers found last night and my hips lift off the bed. The sound I make is involuntary and unmistakable.
"There," I gasp. "Right there. That's the spot."
"What? You okay?"
"Don't stop. Right there."
"I got you, baby," he says. His voice is strained and rough and barely holding together.
He adjusts. Finds the angle and keeps it. His hand keeps stroking, his hips keep the rhythm and the pleasure builds past anything I knew was possible. I didn't know it could feel like this. I didn't know that looking up into a face could feel like looking up at heaven.
The rhythm builds. He's still careful but the care is finding its groove, finding the place where careful and passionate coexist. My hips are rising to meet him and we're moving together now, a conversation between bodies, the call and answer that builds in waves.
His hand matches the pace, tightening, and I'm caught between the fullness of him inside me and the pressure of his hand around me and every nerve in my body is firing at once.
I'm close. The orgasm builds from the deep place, the place his fingers found last night, amplified by his hand on my cock. The pressure builds and the heat builds. I'm looking up at his face and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen—wrecked, open, the face of a man who is being undone by love and is letting it happen.
"Tex… I'm going to—"
"Me too. God, Stormy, me too—"
I come first. The orgasm rolls through me from both places at once—from inside where he's hitting the spot and from his hand around me—and the combination is overwhelming, a full-body event that arcs my spine off the bed. My body tightens around him and I cry out his name.
