Dagan’s hands skim my sides, memorizing every line and curve, every place that makes me gasp or sigh. My dress crumbles away, like his clothes did earlier, and I gasp.
“Easy, Oona,” he rumbles. “Let me see you. Let me worship.”
He runs his palm down my cheek to my throat, between my breasts, and over my soft belly.
He is so pale against my tanned skin, he practically glows. And it’s beautiful.
He’s beautiful.
Next, he pushes my thighs apart, and I shiver, wanting him closer to where I need him most.
My pussy is dripping with arousal. And I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or proud because no one has ever caused such a reaction in me.
When he finally settles his weight over me, bracing some of it on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me, the rightness of it slams through me.
Like I was cut for this.
For him.
He pauses, eyes searching mine, waiting.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him in.
“Yes,” I whisper, no hesitation left. “Please. I want this. I want you.”
Something hot and fierce flashes across his face.
“Then I shall give you what you want. All that I have,” he vows.
When he finally moves, when he aligns us and eases forward, there’s a moment of breathless, stretching ache—and then he’s there, deep, filling, grounding me more completely than the earth ever has.
The burn is so good. His thick cock is so big, so long, and he pushes deep. I feel my body stretch to accommodate him.
“So tight, Oona. Gods, so fucking tight.”
A sound rips out of me that I don’t recognize as my own.
He shudders, eyes squeezing shut, jaw clenched so hard I can see the strain.
“Let me in,” he grits out. “That’s it… gods, you are… perfect.” His forehead presses to mine, sweat beading along his temple. “Tell me if it is too much. If I am hurting you.”
“No! Please, don’t stop. You’re exactly enough,” I manage, fingers digging into his back as he holds still, letting me adjust.
I rock my hips experimentally, and the groan he gives me is obscene in the best way.
After that, there’s no thought.
Just sensation.
Dagan moves slowly at first, deep, measured strokes that make the air spark around us.
His mouth hovers over mine, just out of reach.
Goddamn tease.
“What do you need, Oona?”
“Your mouth. Please, I need you to kiss me,” I moan.
