Page 6 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

I swallow thickly as his fingers explore, circling and stroking, finding spots that make me gasp and arch.

When he slides one finger inside me, I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin.

He works me slowly, adding a second finger, stretching me, his thumb finding that bundle of nerves that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.

"Russ," I gasp, not even sure what I'm asking for.

"I know, baby. I've got you." He kisses me again, swallowing my moans as he works me higher and higher. The pressure builds, coiling tight in my belly, and then I'm shattering, crying out against his mouth as pleasure crashes through me in waves.

I'm still trembling when he enters me slowly, giving me time to adjust. There's pressure, a stretch that borders on pain, but he's patient, kissing me and murmuring reassurances. When he's fully seated inside me, we both go still, breathing hard.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he groans. "So tight. So perfect."

He starts to move, slow and steady, and the discomfort fades into something else entirely. Pleasure builds with each thrust and roll of his hips. He adjusts the angle, and suddenly he's hitting a spot inside me that makes me see stars.

"There?" he asks, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice.

"Yes, oh God, yes."

He picks up the pace, his movements becoming harder and faster.

The sound of our bodies coming together fills the room, mixed with our breathing and moans.

His hand slides between us, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves again, and the combination is too much.

I come apart with a cry, my body clenching around him. He follows seconds later, his hips stuttering as he buries his face in my neck, my name a rough groan on his lips.

We stay like that for a long moment, both of us catching our breath. Then he pulls out and I immediately feel the loss.

He lies back down beside me, pulling me against his chest.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder, and I can feel his heartbeat gradually slowing beneath my palm.

We lie there in comfortable silence for a while, and I find myself drifting, sated and content. But then Russ shifts, sitting up.

"I should go," he says, and there's something almost apologetic in his tone. "I've got an early morning."

I nod, trying not to feel disappointed. This was always meant to be a one-night thing. No attachments or expectations. That was the whole point.

He dresses quickly, and I pull on my robe, following him to the door. At the threshold, he turns back, cupping my face for one more kiss.

"Thanks for tonight," he says. "You're something special, Marla."

And then he's gone, the sound of his car fading into the night.

I lean against the closed door, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.

My mind is racing, full of sensations and emotions I need to capture before they fade.

I practically run to my laptop, not even bothering to get dressed.

My fingers fly over the keyboard as I open a new document and start typing.

The way his hands felt on my skin. The heat of his mouth. The stretch and fullness of him inside me. The way he made me feel beautiful, desired, and perfect.

This is exactly what I needed. Real experience and sensations to draw from. My romance novel is going to be so much better now that I know what I'm writing about.

I type furiously, capturing every detail, including the humor and tenderness mixed with raw passion.