“Oh,” I whisper, before I can stop myself.
Something fierce and helpless flashes across his face.
“Can I move?”
I nod, then remember. “Yes.”
He draws back a little.
The drag of it makes me tense, but when he pushes in again, it’s better. Still intense. Still enough to make my fingers tighten on him. But better. The rhythm he finds is slow at first, like he’s learning me and holding himself back at the same time.
Each stroke pulls a different sound from me. Not loud or polished. The kind of sounds I’d be mortified by if I had any brain cells left to spare for embarrassment.
He kisses me when I make them, like he’s collecting each one.
My body keeps changing around him. That’s the only way I know to think it. Adjusting. Opening. The initial sting fading under a deep, pulsing heat that gathers lower and lower until I can’t tell where discomfort ends and pleasure begins.
“Johnny,” I breathe, and his name comes out like a plea.
“I know.” He presses his mouth to my throat. “I know, Nat.”
My fingers slide into his hair. His rhythm shifts. Rougher now, the care still there but fraying at the edges, and something in me answers immediately. My legs fall wider. My hips lift to meet him before I can be shy about it.
“That’s it,” he says, voice deep enough to send a shiver down my spine.
Heat floods through me at the praise so fast my vision blurs.
He shifts the angle with one hand at my thigh, and the next thrust drags against a spot inside me that makes the whole room tilt sideways. I gasp. His head jerks up.
“That?”
I can only nod.
He does it again.
“Yes, God, right there, don’t stop.”
The pressure building in me tightens hard and fast now, centered low in my body and spreading out in trembling waves. My breath breaks. My thighs shake. I clutch at him with one hand and hold on to the sheets with the other, because all at once I need something solid, and I’m so close, so goddamn close.
“Yes, Johnny, oh my God,more.”
His hips stutter.
Just for a beat. Barely a breath. But I feel it inside me, the rhythm that’s been building me toward the edge skipping like a scratch across a record. His whole body goes tense above me. A crease digs between his brows. His eyes lose focus.
“Luca.”
I blink up at him.
I don’t understand. My head is spinning, my body screaming, and the syllables don’t land right because I’m two seconds from falling apart and nothing makes sense except him inside me and the ache building behind my clit.
My mouth parts. “What?”
His hand comes to my face. His thumb presses into my cheek, almost trembling.
“Say it,” he says.
His next thrust is deep enough to wrench a cry out of me. He stays there, buried inside me, his breath ragged against my lips, like he’s barely holding himself together.
