Page 22 of My Girl to Take

It takes me apart. My back comes off the bed, my thighs clamp around his head, and my free hand fists into the sheet beside my head—which I did not put there and don’t remember moving. I cry out, keening as pleasure washes through me.

He doesn’t stop.

That’s the part nobody warns you about. I’m still coming, and he’s still going, gentler now but not stopping. It’s too much; it’s genuinely too much. My hips twist to get away from him, but his arm across them will not let me.

“One more, baby,” he says. “You’ve got another one.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.”

He adds the second finger while I’m still shuddering. Where the first stretched me, the second one burns, and he goes slow with it, his tongue never stopping. The second one builds differently. Deeper. Slower. It comes up through the middle of me instead of gathering at the surface, and when it breaks, it takes my breath entirely.

I’m still shaking when he stands up.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist and looks down at me—wrecked, open, my hand still exactly where he put it—and something in his face isn’t controlled anymore.

He crawls up my body and braces one forearm beside my head, taking himself in his other hand. I feel him against me—blunt and thick and much larger than his fingers were. He drags his cock through the slickness he made, slow, coating himself, pressing against the place he just spent twenty minutes on until I’m lifting into it.

Then he lines up and presses in.

The first inch is pressure and nothing else. My body resists it, and he doesn’t force it. He just stays there and lets me open around him as his hand comes to my jaw and holds my face.

“Breathe out.”

I do, and he sinks in further, and that’s the stretch—burning, impossible, more than I understood—and I hear myself make a small broken noise against his palm.

“That’s it. There you are.” He goes no further. He’s shaking with the effort of not going further. “You’re doing so well.”

He takes it in stages. A little, then still. A little more, then still. Letting me swallow each inch of him before he gives me the next. It goes on so long I lose track of where he is inside me until his thighs meet mine.

He’s all the way in, and I am completely full.

“There,” he breathes. “That’s all of me.”

I try to look away—at the ceiling, at anything, because it’s too much to be looked at while this is happening.

“Eyes on me,” he says. “You don’t get to go somewhere else for this.”

I bring my eyes back. He watches me the entire time.

I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper.

He starts to move.

It hurts, and then it stops hurting. Then, it turns into something else entirely—his hips working in long, deep, unhurried strokes. Out almost to the tip and back in all the way, so that I feel every part of his length each time. The burn dulls into heat. The heat turns into something with a rhythm to it, something my body starts pushing up to meet before I’ve decided to.

He talks to me the whole way through. That’s it. That’s my girl. You’re doing so well. Look at me. And I have never been so completely held in one place by anybody in my life.

“Feel that?” His voice is ragged now. “That’s you taking all of me.”

He hooks my leg over his shoulder and changes the angle, and I make a sound that isn’t a word.

Everything gets deeper. He’s hitting somewhere new, somewhere that has no business feeling like this, and his hand slides between us and finds my clit with his thumb, working in tight circles in time with his hips. Another orgasm starts building almost immediately.

“Again,” he says. “Right now. With me.”

When I break the second time, it isn’t like the first at all. The first was something that happened to my body. This one goes through the middle of me and takes something with it. I hear myself say his name, and then something after his name that I have no business saying eleven days into knowing him.