And I let her have me completely.
“That’s it—fuck, just like that,” I growl, voice shredded, rolling and pinching her perfectly pebbled nipple. “Ride me like you own me. Take every fucking inch.”
Sophia’s head falls back, lips parted on a broken cry as she chases her pleasure. Sweat slicks her skin. Her pussy is a vise, and I feel her start to fall apart.
Her thighs lock, trembling violently. Her inner walls ripple and clamp down hard, pulsing around every thick inch of me. She grinds down deep, clit crushed against my pelvis, and shatters with a raw, keening scream of my name.
“Nazareth—fuck?—!”
Her cunt spasms violently, gushing hot and slick all over my cock, drenching my balls, my thighs, the sheets beneath us. Wave after wave of her orgasm milks me so perfectly I see stars.
“This pussy has ruined me.” I slam up into her harder, fingers bruising her hips as I fuck her through her orgasm like a man possessed. “I hope it fucking kills me.”
The pleasure hits me like a freight train. My balls pull tight, spine locking, and I come with a guttural, broken roar.
I buck off the mattress as I spill into her, cum flooding her cunt, pulse after pulse, filling her until it leaks out around my cockwith every savage thrust. I keep driving into her, grinding hard, forcing every drop as deep as it will go.
It’s violent. Messy. Devastating. And I empty myself inside the only woman who’s ever broken me open.
For a long moment, the only sounds are our ragged breathing, and the feel of our wet cum stained between us.
Not once have I ever thought this possible for me. Towantthe pleasure, to crave the desire. But it’s all her. Only her.
Forever. Her.
I pull her down against my chest, still buried to the hilt inside her, and wrap my arms around her like I’ll never let go.
“Don’t ever leave me again,” she pants against my chest. “Promise me.”
My heart cracks a little. Bleeds a little. Aches a lot. Because of all the things I can give this woman, she’s asking of me the one thing I can’t.
And it’s the worst fucking feeling in the world.
Dear Nazareth,
Every entry so far has been pieces of me put in words…for you.
But today I’m writing this for me. Not you. So close your eyes. xxx
I’ve been thinking about him again.
I know. I know.
It’s worse at night. When the apartment gets quiet and Ian’s door clicks shut, there’s nothing left to distract me from the inside of my own head. And my head always circles back to the same place—the mountain house.
To his hands.
To the way he looked at me when he was buried inside me, like I was the only real thing he’d ever let himself want.
I’ve tried to stop. Wine. Long walks along the Seine. Ian’s relentless teasing. I baked three loaves of bread in one afternoon like a woman possessed.
None of it works.
The missing just sits there, low and heavy in my belly, patient and unrelenting. It doesn’t fade. It doesn’t bargain. It simply waits.
Last night I almost gave in. I lay in bed with my hand drifting down my stomach, telling myself it was just release, just biology, just need. But every time my fingers moved, it was his hands I felt. His weight. His voice in my ear saying things that stripped me down to nothing and somehow still made me feel seen. And I couldn’t do it.
Because it’s not just an orgasm I want.
