Every choice I’ve ever made has had someone else’s fingerprints on it. Where I live. Who I marry. What I’m worth and to whom.
Not this one.
“Come here.”
Johnny braces a knee on the mattress. Lowers himself over me. The full weight of him presses me into the sheets, skin to skin, and the sound that comes out of me is something I couldn’t fake if I tried. I can feel him against my inner thigh, hot and hard, and when my hips tilt up without permission, his eyes squeeze shut for one hard second.
Then his mouth is on mine.
I taste myself faintly on his tongue, and embarrassment flashes through me, then melts so fast into arousal I can barely separate the two.
His hand slides into my hair. Mine finds his shoulder, then his back. He makes a low sound into my mouth when my nails drag over wet skin, and the sound goes straight through me.
I reach between us before I can lose my nerve.
My fingers wrap around him, and he sucks in a breath like I’ve hurt him. I stroke him once—just once—and the sheer heat and hardness of him makes my stomach flip. He’s bigger than my body knows what to do with. The thought should scare me.
It does scare me.
It also makes me wetter.
His forehead comes down to mine. “Nat.”
I open my eyes.
There’s strain all over his face. Want, yes, but not only that. Restraint. Care. Maybe even fear.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know.” My voice comes out thinner than I want. I swallow and try again. “I want to.”
His thumb traces my cheek. His eyes search mine one last time, restraint hanging by a thread.
The thread snaps.
His hand slides down my body. Over my breast. My ribs. My waist. Lower. He grips my thigh and pushes it wide. The air hits where I’m swollen and slick and a shiver rolls through me.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says.
I nod.
“I need your words, Princess.”
“I will,” I whisper.
Only then does he notch himself against me. The blunt head of his cock presses at my entrance, hot and bare, and every muscle in my body tightens.
I knew it would feel different from his fingers. I knew that. But knowing is not the same thing as feeling the thick heat of him there, pressing, asking, making my breath catch halfway in.
His hand slides back to my face. “Look at me.”
I do.
Then he pushes in.
The first inch burns enough to make my fingers lock on his shoulders.
He stops immediately.
