He curses under his breath. In one smooth motion he peels the condom off and tosses it aside. When he lines up again, the blunt, bare head of his cock nudges against my soaked entrance, and we both shudder.
“Fuck, Gisele,” he breathes, voice strained. “I’m clean too. Tested last month. But if you want me to stop—”
“Don’t you dare stop.” I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him closer. “I need you bare. I need to feel you.”
He doesn’t let me finish. Just shifts, positions himself, and slides home in one smooth motion.
We both go still.
It’s not our first time. Not even our third or fourth. But something about this moment feels different. More significant. We’re not just having sex—we’re making a promise with our bodies.
“Okay?” he asks.
“More than okay.”
We move together slowly, finding a rhythm that builds without rushing. His eyes stay on mine—no closed lids, no looking away. Just complete presence, complete connection.
The pleasure builds in waves rather than spikes. I feel every inch of him, every shift of angle, every place where our bodies meet and merge. His hands trace my sides, my hips, the curve of my breast. Mine grip his shoulders, his back, the muscles that flex and release with each thrust.
“God, Gisele.” His voice is wrecked. “You feel—”
“I know.”
“I can’t—I’m not going to last if you keep that up.”
“Then don’t.” I pull him closer, deeper. “Don’t hold back.”
His expression shifts, the last trace of control dissolving, replaced by something rawer. He moves faster, harder, and I match him stroke for stroke. The tension coils tighter, building toward the inevitable.
“Come with me,” he groans.
“Yes.”
The wave crests and breaks, pulling us both under. I feel him pulse inside me as my own release crashes through my body—pleasure and connection and relief all tangled together into something transcendent.
We collapse together, breathing hard, hearts pounding in syncopated rhythm.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. We just lie there, tangled in each other, letting the afterglow settle over us.
“That was different,” he says eventually.
“Good different?”
“Best different.” He shifts so he can see my face. “I felt… I don’t know how to explain it. Like we were actually there. Both of us. No part of me holding back.”
“I felt it, too.”
“Is that how it’s supposed to feel?” He sounds genuinely curious. “All the time?”
“I think it’s how you feel when you stop being afraid.”
The observation hangs in the air between us. Not heavy—just true.
“I’m still afraid,” he admits. “Not of this—of losing it. Of screwing it up somehow.”
“That’s different.” I trace patterns on his chest. “That’s just loving something. Being afraid of losing it proves it matters.”
“Everything with you matters.” He catches my hand, presses a kiss to my palm. “That’s the terrifying part.”
