That small movement breaks him. Any last hesitation falls away. He pushes his hips forward and slots himself into position. Every nerve lights up, alive with anticipation, as I search the dark for a hint of his expression.
Is he holding back?
Or already gone?
He brings his forehead to mine, our breath mingling between us. “I’m not a good person,” he whispers.
It sounds like a confession. Like a warning.
Like the last door he’s giving me the chance to walk back through.
Fuck that.
“Good,” I say. “Neither am I.”
He pushes into me. Going slow like he wants to memorize this, how I take him in, how deep he can go.
I exhale as my body adjusts, reacting to him. I lift my hips and urge him on, unable to stay still when every instinct screams to move. He slides forward until he’s fully seated inside me. Then he stops, but I can feel him. How hard he is. How he pulses. He’s barely holding on.
“This is—” He breaks off, as if he doesn’t have the words.
I don’t either.
His hands go to my hips, anchoring me as he moves again, quicker, harder. He repeats the motion, gliding in and out at a fast pace. His breath is hot puffs of air that blow across my cheek. He lets out a deep sensual groan, and that’s how I know he’s not trying to understand anymore. He’s inside it. Living it, and I think we’ve found it, that everything is clicking.
Then he stops.
Completely.
His head drops, his hair brushing my forehead. His fingers dig into my skin, holding me in place.
“Wait.” The word comes out low. Strained.
My body protests immediately, grieving the sudden loss of him, but he stays frozen.
Too far. I pushed him too far.
He’s going to say that this—us—was a mistake.
“Are you okay?” I ask, hating how much I need the answer to be yes.
His forehead presses to mine.
“I don’t—” He cuts himself off. “I…give me a minute.”
He shifts, a shallow roll of his hips, like he’s testing it. Regaining ground.
“Don’t move.” He pulls out and, with a quick thrust, slams back in.
We both cry out at that, the sound bouncing off the stone walls around us and returning louder. Then he’s back. Moving with me, hips rolling, going deeper each time. He picks up the pace, and it’s different now. Faster, more aware, like he’s done searching and decided.
“So good,” I slur, encouraging him.
“Yes,” he murmurs, moving more quickly. Pulling out, then driving back into me. Again. Again. The handcuffs jangle, adding to the combined sound of our panting. To my moans of pleasure. The orgasm is back, building fast, each muscle tense and straining.
My arms ache above my head, tingling, useless, when all I want is to pull him closer and hold him, but I know he wouldn’t like that, and it’s not important enough to push. Not right now, when he’s come so far.
Carrson leans down and kisses me.
