He rose over me—slow, predatory.
Kicked his pants off completely.
His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, veins standing out, the tip already leaking.
My breath caught.
He settled between my thighs.
One hand guided himself to my entrance—nudged just the head inside.
I tensed again.
He paused.
Leaned down.
Kissed me—soft this time.
Tasting myself on his tongue.
“Breathe,” he whispered against my lips. “I’ve got you.”
Then he pushed forward.
The stretch burned.
Tears pricked my eyes.
He stopped halfway.
Kissed my temple. My cheek.
The corner of my mouth.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmured—voice wrecked.
“Just a little more.”
Then he drove his cock deep inside me with one powerful thrust, seating himself fully until his hips pressed flush against mine.
A sharp gasp tore from my throat.
I swore I could feel the thick head of his cock pressing into my lower belly — so deep, so big, it felt like he was claiming every inch of me from the inside.
He stayed still.
Let me adjust.
Forehead pressed to mine.
Breathing ragged.
When my hips finally shifted, testing him, a low, rough groan rumbled from his chest.
Then he moved.
Slow and controlled at first — long, measured strokes that dragged every thick inch of his cock almost all the way out before sinking back in deep, letting me feel every ridge, every vein.
