I slide my palm down his length, feeling the soft, taut skin stretched over the hardness of him, and he lets out a sharp hiss. When my palm slides over the slick, wet tip, his hips jerk forward.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "Your hand—fuck, Savannah, your hand feels so good."
We're both moving now, hands on each other, mouths finding skin wherever they can. “I can’t—” He groans as I slide my hand over him again. “I can’t stop—fuck?—”
“I didn’t ask you to,” I whisper, my hips arching, and he lets out a pained sound.
He pulls his fingers out of me, and I whimper at the loss, but then he's lifting me, his hands gripping my thighs.
"Wrap your legs around me," he says. I do, clinging to him as he presses me harder against the tree. The bark digs into my back through my dress, but I don't care. All I care about is the feeling of him between my legs, the heat of him, the promise of what's about to happen.
"Tell me to stop," he says against my lips. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll stop right now."
My arms are around his neck, my legs around his hips, and I can feel him pressed between my thighs, hot and throbbing. I can't. I can't tell him to stop, because I want this more than I've ever wanted anything. I want him to make me forget about Thad, about my father, about the life I'm supposed to want. I want him to make me feel alive.
"Don't stop," I whisper. "Please don't stop."
I swear I see his eyes darken again. I feel him reach between us, his fingers nudging my thong aside, positioning himself. I feel his tip pressing against my entrance.
"This is going to hurt," he says, his voice strained. "I'll try to be gentle, but?—"
“I want you,” I breathe, and he groans, his mouth covering mine as his hips tilt forward, and he pushes into me.
It’s only the first inch, but I gasp at the stretch. It burns, but I don't want him to stop. I dig my nails into his shoulders, holding on as he works himself deeper.
"Breathe," he murmurs against my lips. "Just breathe, baby. You're doing so well." I feel him shudder as he holds himself there, as if it’s difficult for him to stay still, giving me time to adjust. I can feel him trembling with the effort of holding back, and something about that, knowing he's barely maintaining control, makes me want him even more.
"More," I gasp. "I can take more."
"Fuck." He pushes deeper, and I feel something give way inside me. The pain is sharp and immediate, and I cry out before I can stop myself.
His hand covers my mouth again. "Shh. I know, I know it hurts. But you're taking me so well. So fucking perfect."
He sinks into me another inch, and another, until suddenly his hips are against mine, and I can feel that he’s fully inside me now, and I feel impossibly full. He stays still, letting me adjust, pressing kisses to my face, my neck, my shoulders. Every graze of his lips feels like a brand, like he’s searing a mark into me, claiming me, making me his.
“Are you okay?” he whispers against my skin, and I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The pain is fading, replaced by something else—pressure and heat, a desperate need for movement.
"Please," I whisper. "More."
He shudders again, moaning as he pulls back slowly, then pushes in again, and the sensation makes my eyes roll back. It's not quite pleasure yet. It's too intense, too overwhelming, but it's not pain either. It's something in between, something that makes me want more.
His rhythm is slow and careful at first, but I can feel his control slipping with each thrust. His breathing is harsh against my ear, his fingers digging into my thighs hard enough to bruise. "You feel so good," he groans. "So tight around me. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
The words should scare me. They should remind me of all the reasons this is wrong. But instead, they make me clench around him, make me meet his thrusts with my own desperate movements, my hips rocking against his. The pain has faded, and now all I want is him,moreof him, as much as I can have.
I want it to last forever, and I also know that we need to hurry. We could be caught at any moment, any?—
“Romeo—” I breathe his name against his lips. “Someone could come out, we should?—”
“I don’t care.” His teeth scrape my lower lip, his hips surging up to fill me again with his cock, the wet sounds of arousal between us. “You're mine now. You understand that? Mine."
I’m not. I never can be. But right now, it feels like I am. And in this moment, with him inside me, pleasure building in my core like a storm about to break—I can't tell him any differently.
Right now, I am his.
His hand slides between us, finding my clit, and suddenly the pleasure isn't building anymore. It crashes over me in waves, my body convulsing around him as my head falls back against the tree.
“Fuck—” Romeo groans, shuddering as he thrusts again. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good coming on my cock?—”
