That’s when he shoved himself into me, and every ounce of pain I’d ever felt from a slam against the boards or a puck to the face rocked my world.
“Oh, fucking mother of . . . fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Jacks froze.
“Too much?”
“Just . . . don’t move. God, whatever you do, stay right there.”
He smiled.
I didn’t.
“Easy. I promise it gets easier.”
Easy?
How the fuck was this supposed to be easy? Who shoved a truck up their ass and smiled while they did it? Fucking holy hell.
I breathed.
I could do this.
I could let myself go and ease up and—
He slid in deeper.
And somehow, without me trying, my body accepted him. My asshole unclenched, and my abs released, and my whole world spun around the idea that Jackson Armstrong was inside me.
He couldn’t go any deeper, yet he stayed there, looking down, filling me in a way I’d never known.
“Deep breath,” he said.
For what?I thought, right before he pulled back and the pain spiked again.
“OH!”
Then he slid in again, and there was no more pain.
Out and in. So slowly. So tenderly.
Pleasure became the white noise of my life. It was all I knew, all I could feel. Jacks’s firm grip, his body pressing against my own—into my own—everything I thought I’d known about joy and desire faded to gray in his presence.
He reached down, gripping my shoulders, bracing himself, then picked up his pace.
By the time I breathed again, the bed was squeaking, and Jacks was thrusting into me with the regularity of a metronome. He’d stopped being gentle, too. Grunting as he put his weight and strength intoevery movement.
I’d opened completely for him, and his cock rewarded me by hitting that special spot over and over and over.
“Oh, God, Jacks. Holy shit! That feels . . . I can’t . . . oh, God!”
He shoved harder and faster.
Sweat soaked my body, pooling on my chest, dripping from his brow and hair.
Still, he didn’t slow.
His breathing grew labored.
