He held my face in both hands.
He said, “You are not allowed to look away.”
I didn’t.
He held my face in both hands, thumbs on my jaw, his body braced above mine, the firelight running the length of his back and into the hollow at the base of his spine. His cock was hard and hot between my thighs, but he did not move. He only looked at me, waiting, the shimmer at his cheekbone gone almost white.
He said, “This is the part that seals the bond.”
He moved his hand from my cheek to the underside of my jaw, tilting my face so I could see him, and then—with a precision that bordered on the cruel—he drew the head of his cock up the length of my slit, catching on the clit for a half-second, then stopping at my entrance.
He did not push in.
He said, “Tell me you want it.”
I said, “I want it.”
He did not move.
He said, “Again.”
I said, “Iwantit.”
He pressed, the head just inside, a pressure that ran up the inside of my thighs and into the pit of my stomach.
He said, “Once more, baby. The bond only believes a want if it’s said three times.”
I closed my eyes. He let me, for a second, and then his hand came to my throat, not tight, but definite.
He said, “Open them.”
I did.
I looked at the ceiling.
I saw the two of us in the mirror, my body splayed wide beneath his, his body above mine like an animal poised to break into a run.
I said, “I want it. I want you. I want you to fuck me.”
He entered me, slow, the length of him pushing in until my body took all of him. There was no friction, only the give of the muscle, the way the body makes room for a thing it has always,secretly, been waiting for. The bond at my wrist went molten. The base of my spine lit with a sharp, clean click, like a switch being thrown.
The room filled with gold.
He started to fuck me.
Not fast, not at first. He pulled out almost all the way, then in again, slow, each stroke going deeper. His hand held my wrists above my head, and when I tried to turn away from the mirror he said, “No, baby. You look. You see what you look like when you’re being fucked by someone who wants you more than anything in the world.”
I watched.
I watched the way my breasts moved, the way my mouth opened, the way the color flared in my skin. I watched the way his body covered mine, the muscles at his back moving like a river under ice. I watched the way his cock moved inside me, the shadow of it at my mound, the slick shining at the base of it every time he drew back.
I had never looked at myself like this.
Not even in the worst moments of my own shame, not even in the bright-lit public restrooms of downtown Brooklyn, had I ever looked at my own body with the level gaze of a person who deserved to be looked at.
He went harder.
He did not lose the rhythm. He held my wrists in one hand, then reached down and put two fingers to my clit, circling, slow, exact.
