I rose slowly, uncoiling over him, letting my body brush his, skin to skin, until I was straddling his lap, knees braced on either side of his hips.
“You’re going to kill me,” he murmured, eyes searching my face like he was trying to memorize it.
“That would be a tragic time for your luck to run out,” I said, even as my hands shook a little reaching for the nightstand.
The condom box was cool against my palm. I flipped it open, plucked one from the foil, and tore it carefully. His gaze didn’t leave my face, but his breath went a little ragged when my hand slid down to him.
He was hard and hot in my grip, a solid, undeniable answer to every doubt he’d ever had about his body.
His jaw clenched as I unrolled it down the length of him. It was a heady thrill to see him fully ready for me.
When I was done, I settled my hands on his shoulders, the tendons there tight under my fingers. His palms slid up my thighs, over my hips, fingers curving around my waist like they belonged there.
“Last chance to downgrade to advanced cuddling,” I said, trying to make my voice light and failing.
“Not a fucking chance,” he breathed.
I shifted my weight, lifted just enough, and reached between us to guide him. The head of him nudged against me, and my lungs forgot what to do. His hand slid between my thighs, teasing my pussy.
“Fuck,” he growled. “You’re so fucking wet.”
I hissed at his words and lined the head of his cock at my entrance. We both stilled.
His eyes locked on mine, wide and dark and a little scared.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded, throat too tight for words. “You?”
His hands tightened on my waist. “Ask me again when I can think.”
I sank down, inch by devastating inch, every nerve ending lighting up.
Achingly slowly he filled me.
I sank down further, feeling every new stretch as my body opened around him. Heat climbed my throat, my head tipping back as the fullness built, rich and overwhelming. His fingers clamped down on my hips, the grip bordering on bruising, like he was anchoring both of us to the moment.
Our breaths stuttered in the same broken rhythm—mine on every downward slide, his on every helpless thrust up to meet me—until I finally took all of him, hips flush to his. For a second we just stayed there, locked together, chests heaving, foreheads almost touching, sharing the same thin slice of air while our bodies learned the feel of being completely, irreversibly connected.
He let out a low, guttural sound that I felt all the way through my spine. His head tipped back, jaw clenched, then snapped forward again like he refused to miss a single second of this.
“Holy shit,” he rasped. “Clara.”
“That good, huh?” My voice shook.
His fingers flexed, hauling me a fraction closer. “You have no idea.”
We found a rhythm the way we’d found everything so far—with a little awkwardness, a lot of communication, and more want than sense.
At first I was hyperaware of every adjustment he made with his leg—the way his foot pushed into the floor, how he shifted his hips to keep everything aligned. I checked in constantly.
“Here okay?” I asked, rocking my hips forward, grinding my clit against the base of his cock.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Right there.”
“What about this?” I angled differently, feeling the drag of him in a new place that made stars burst behind my eyes.
His grip tightened. “Jesus, Duchess. Yeah. That. Don’t you dare stop doing that.”
