My breath broke.
He was big enough that I had to take him inch by inch, my nails digging into his shoulders as the stretch burned into pleasure. Zane moved slowly, jaw clenched, sweat standing at his temple.
“Breathe,” he said.
“I’m trying.”
“You’re doing so good.”
The praise made me softer, wetter, needier.
He sank deeper.
I moaned.
“There you go,” he said. “That’s my girl.”
The words should’ve scared me.
They didn’t.
They hit somewhere tender and greedy inside me, a place that had been starving to be wanted without being made smaller for wanting back.
Zane seated himself fully, and for one suspended second neither of us moved.
I felt all of him.
I felt the hard press of his body, the thick stretch of his cock, the sun on my skin, the weathered dock under my back, the lake air cooling the sweat at my throat, and Zane’s breath against my mouth.
Then I moved my hips.
His control snapped.
Zane pulled out and drove back in, and I cried out so loudly the sound scattered across the water.
“Yes,” I said. “Like that.”
He fucked me with deep, controlled strokes at first, watching my face, one forearm braced beside my head, the other hand gripping my hip. The dock creaked under us. Water slapped the posts. My legs tightened around him.
It was urgent and messy and so good I couldn’t make myself care about anything except the next thrust.
Zane’s mouth found mine. “You feel so fucking good.”
I dragged my nails down his back. “Don’t stop.”
“I’m not stopping.”
He shifted his angle, and the next thrust hit a place inside me that turned me liquid.
I gasped. “There.”
Zane did it again.
My head tipped back.
“Right there?” he asked.
“Yes. Zane, yes.”
