I nod fervently, agreeing, reassuring, begging.
It’s enough for David. His mouth is back on mine without another word, speaking instead with his almost brutal kisses, in a language I’ve never known, but am fast learning.
He rests his weight on one elbow, slipping his opposite hand between us to claim more of me. I don’t tell him he already owns me in ways he’ll never know. My fingers itch to launch an expedition of their own, and they trace the lines of muscle in his strong back.
His lips finally, reluctantly release mine to taste my skin, working a torturous path down my neck and along my collarbone, and when his palm closes over my breast, I arch up into him.
My heart races, but the rhythm of its beat never wavers—Da-vid, Da-vid, Da-vid.
His hand moves over my hip and my body aches so badly for him I fear I might implode. His answering need burns me through the thin layers of cotton that separate skin from skin, and I don’t immediately realize his lips have even paused their sweet torment as my gaze drops to his boxer briefs. I want more than anything to tear them from him. David follows my line of sight, his lips quirking into a self-satisfied smirk. “See something you like?” he rumbles.
I blush, but instead of retreating, I nod.
His mirth fades instantly, and his mouth is back on mine. He starts to whisper how much he wants me, his voice low and gravelly, his words utterly surreal, and then he’s got the waist of both my pajama shorts and panties in his grasp. He starts to peel them down, and my pulse takes off like wildfire with every inch of progress.
I hold my breath, not daring to watch him as he takes in my nakedness. But I don’t miss his sharp exhale or his muttered curse. “This is so fucked up,” he repeats, and I want to argue, but I can’t. Because he’s right. This is fucked up. But that doesn’t make me want him any less.
And David appears to be in agreement as he comes back down over me, kissing me, tasting my skin, until I’m so wound up I can hardly breathe. I’m vaguely aware of a rustle of clothing before David’s underwear follows mine over the side of the bed, and suddenly I’m staring at David March, naked. And it’s glorious.
As if he knows I need a moment to take him in, he pauses above me, letting me shamelessly gawk. But he doesn’t call me out on it. Because he’s doing the very same thing.
But a moment is all either of us is willing to concede, because we crash back together almost violently, touching, tasting, teasing.
“God, Bea,” David grits out between kisses. “You are so fucking sweet.” His hand slides between my legs, and he begins to stroke me.
My eyes fall closed. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched, and it was so different with Brian. I was so young. So nervous. I sigh, long and strangled, and then David’s hand is gone, and he’s leaning over me to grab what must be a condom from the nightstand. A condom.
This is really happening.
My heart stops as David positions himself, and he meets my eyes with a question that is entirely unnecessary. Because I’m more than sure—I’m positively desperate for him.
He mutters something to himself through clenched teeth that sounds vaguely like, “fuck it,” and then, finally, David gives in.
He pushes inside me in one hard thrust, and I’m surprised by the shock of pain as his groan vibrates against my throat. I thought it was only supposed to hurt the first time, and I don’t want David to know just how inexperienced I truly am. But as he starts to move inside me, surging and withdrawing again and again, his hips grinding boldly against mine, the pain begins to melt into something else.
Something incredible.
“Fuck, you feel amazing,” David rasps, his words resonating in every part of me—even the one place it really shouldn’t—and I silently scold my heart and demand it make itself scarce. “So fucking tight,” he marvels. “So wet. Goddamn, beautiful girl…” He groans again, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
Unfathomable pleasure both sates and stokes my desire, and it’s maddening. Because the better he feels, the more I need, and I shamelessly meet him thrust for thrust, my legs wrapped tightly around him like I can somehow trap him here with me.
On me.
In me.
The otherwise quiet room fills with the soundtrack of our recklessness—with every creak of the mattress and thump of the headboard, with our heavily labored breaths and collision of flesh—all of it growing in volume and intensity at a pace set by David’s expert hips.
I try to keep my mind as present as possible, not wanting to miss a single detail, trying to etch it all permanently onto my brain. But there’s too much sensation, too much David, and he’s just everywhere.
My hands rove over each hill and valley of muscle in his strong, broad back, relishing the way they flex and roll, as if to memorize them for some sort of sensual topographic map. Because even as I surrender to his rhythm, even as I lose myself to every rock of his hips, every swipe of his hands, and every last claiming kiss, the awareness that I’ll probably never experience this again is ever-present.
“Motherfuck, Bea,” David growls, and just his nickname for me in that gruff, sexy tone sends waves of mind-numbing pleasure crashing through me like a tidal wave. It’s unbelievable. The feeling of him so deep inside my most intimate place, not just moving, but positively owning.
“Oh God,” I gasp, and it prompts David on.
Faster.
Harder.
