Forrest knew exactly what to do.
But the books had missed the part where it felt like being known. Where it wasn't just sensation but something underneath sensation, something that had to do with the specific man and the specific dark and the way he'd saidI want to say you're beautifullike it was a fact he'd been sitting on.
"Forrest—" His name came out broken.
He made that sound again. Like he was pleased with himself. Like he was pleased with me.
I grabbed his hair.
He didn't stop.
The books had described the build—the tightening, the heat, the way everything narrowed down to one point—and they'd gotten that part right, actually, that part was accurate, but what they hadn't described was crying. What they hadn't prepared me for was the tears that slid sideways into my hair while my body came apart because it was too much, all of it, the want and the relief and the specific astonishing fact of being with someone who wanted to hear me.
Who had taken my hand away from my own mouth so he could.
I came apart completely and made no attempt to be quiet about it.
He stayed with me through every second of it.
And I was still coming down when I was grabbing at him, begging: more,more, please. I tangled my fingers in his hair and he kissed me hard, cupping the back of my head, moving between my legs…he was so hard, and I needed him.
He pulled back just enough to see me…and it ached to look at him, ached to be seen.
“You’re crying,” he said, reaching up to swipe a tear away. “Don’t cry, beautiful. You’re perfect. You’re perfect.”
"I'm not sad," I managed. "I'm not—it's not bad crying." I reached up and touched his face, needing him to understand. "I've never felt like this. Like someone actually wanted me. Like I was—" my voice broke a little— "like I was worth wanting."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"Willa." He pressed his forehead to mine. "You have no idea."
"Then show me."
He kissed me again, deep and slow, and I pulled at him, pulling him closer, needing no space between us anymore.
"Please," I whispered against his mouth. "Forrest. Please."
He groaned, low in his chest. "I don't have anything. A condom, I haven't—it's been years, I didn't think?—"
"It's okay." I pulled back enough to look at him. "I can't. I can't have babies." The words came out flat, factual, the way I'd learned to say things that hurt. "Four years and nothing. So it's okay."
Something moved across his face. Not pity—something more careful than that, something he filed away without making a production of.
"You're sure," he said.
"Forrest." I shifted my hips against him, watched his jaw tighten. "I have never been more sure of anything."
He reached between us; I felt him pull down his boxers, then the thick heat of him falling against my clit. I groaned and thrust up toward him, sliding his cock between my legs.
"Tell me if I need to stop," he said. Low and certain.
"You won't need to stop."
He pushed forward, slow, and I exhaled all at once — a long shuddering breath — my fingers digging into his shoulders, my whole body adjusting to the specific reality of him. It was different than anything before. Everything before had been something happening to me. This was something I'd chosen, something I'd walked down a hallway and knocked on a door for, something I'd unbuttoned my pajamas for in the moonlight.
Mine.
He went still, watching my face. "Okay?"
