“I’m not trying to.”
“I know. Let me work.”
He did. Patient circles. Slow presses. One finger, then two, stretching me open until the burn became pressure and the pressure became something that made me push back without meaning to. When he found that spot inside me again, my entire body jolted.
“There,” I gasped.
“I know.”
“Again.”
He gave it to me until I was incoherent and furious with him for not being inside me already.
“Declan, please.”
He opened the condom with hands that were steadier than his breathing. I watched him roll it on, watched him slick himself, and reality punched through the haze.
This was happening.
Not a fantasy built in the dark. Not hands and mouths stopping before the biggest line.
Him. Me. No going back to not knowing.
He settled between my thighs and looked at me. “Color.”
“Green.”
“If you need to stop, say red. If you need slower, say yellow.”
“I know the system.”
“I need to hear you now.”
My throat tightened. “Green. I want you. I trust you.”
His expression broke for half a second, and then he was kissing me as the head of his cock pressed against me.
The stretch stole every sound out of my mouth.
He went slow. Infuriatingly, perfectly slow. My body resisted, then gave a little, then clenched again. It burned. Not bad, not wrong, but intense enough that my hands locked around his shoulders and my nails dug in.
“Breathe with me,” he said against my mouth.
I tried.
He stopped halfway, forehead pressed to mine, muscles shaking under my hands. “Talk to me.”
“Green,” I panted. “Just full. God. Keep going.”
He pushed in another inch.
My eyes squeezed shut.
“Look at me.”
I opened them because that voice still reached places nothing else did.
“There you are,” he said, quiet and wrecked.
