Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
I have a personal goal of not becoming emotionally undone by sex. It's currently in pieces on the floor.
He keeps talking, low, steady, deliberate, and I stop trying to stifle my response and let him hear me. He makes a sound of deep satisfaction at that, a murmur of approval pressed against my thigh.
“That's a girl. You're doing so well. So fucking well. Look at you.” His voice is warmth and want and something more that I don't have words for. “That's my girl. Just like that. Let go.”
And I do. An orgasm racks through me, my vision going blurry at the edges, my body shuddering, as he eases me to completion with his tongue. His hands are warm and steady and present, holding me through it, murmuring soft approval until the last of it passes.
“There she is,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh. “You're alright.”
I'm more than alright. I'm wrecked and warm and completely undone.
“I want you,” I tell him when I can speak again. Now that I’m basking in the afterglow of orgasm, my need for him is an ache. “It’s alright, I’m on birth control. And I want you inside me.” I’m begging now. “The first time I met you, I told you I didn’t want to die a virgin, remember?”
He smiles. “Aye, of course I do. Be patient, love,” he whispers. “I want to take my time.” He comes to my entrance and circles slowly, coating himself in my wet heat. I feel every nerve ending I own light up at once.
“My god, you're so ready.” His forehead drops to mine. “Such a good girl. Look at you.”
Then he pushes in slowly, so slowly, watching my face the entire time—and the stretch of it pulls a sound out of me I've never made before in my life because I didn't know I could. Because nothing has prepared me for this. For him. For the way my body opens around him like it was only ever waiting for exactly this.
“That's it,” he breathes out. “That's it, love. You're doing so well.” He goes still, and I grip him like I'm falling.
“There.” His lips brush my cheek, my temple, the corner of my jaw. “You won't die a virgin now.”
I laugh, and it comes out wrecked because somewhere beneath the heat and the wanting, I think I might actually cry—at the fullness of him, at the realness of it, at the fact that it's him, and it was always going to be him.
“You alright?” Low. Steady. His thumb traces slow circles at my hip.
“Give me a second.”
He gives me more than that. He holds perfectly still and lets me adjust, lets me breathe, lets me feel every inch of what I've been missing without knowing I was missing it.
Then my hips rise to meet him, and there's nothing careful about either of us after that. I groan, entirely without dignity, because I have never wanted anything or anyone this badly in my life. Because he fills me so completely, it borders on unbearable.
And I could cry.
He moves slowly at first, his forehead pressed to mine. It’s intimate and perfect, and I don’t ever want this moment to end. His breath is warm against my mouth, like he intends to memorize every second of this.
“Look at you,” he whispers. “You feel so perfect. That’s my girl.”
He thrusts again, and I stop trying to hold anything back. There's no point. He's taken every defense I had and laid it down somewhere on the floor behind us, and all that's left is this—the slide and press of him inside me, the unbearable friction, the way he fills me so completely that every exhale comes out broken.
I let him hear all of it. Every sound. Every helpless noise he pulls from me like he already knew they were there, just waiting.
His hand finds my hip and tightens, steadying me, anchoring me to him, and the pressure of it alone is its own kind of praise.
“That's it.” His voice is wrecked, barely above a breath. “Stay with me. Good girl. Just like that. You feel so good, love. You have no idea…”
I moan his name, and he groans in response, as if I've undone something in him and he can't help it either. The knowledge of that—that I do this to him, that I'm not alone in this—is what tips me over.
The second orgasm builds slower, deeper. When it breaks, it doesn't crash—it rolls, wave after wave, and I'm shaking with it, clutching at him. He works me through every second of it without letting up, without mercy, murmuring praise against my temple. “Just like that. Take it, Bridget. Look at you, so perfect, so mine.”
“Declan,” I finally manage, and it comes out wrecked, barely a word at all.