“Seems worth asking.”
I reach for him and pull him back down to me. “Yes,” I say against his mouth. “I’m still okay. Come here.”
He is above me and I am aware of all of him—the sheer size of him, the green expanse of his skin warm against mine, the physical reality of a body built at a different scale than everything in this house, everything in this world, and yet somehow entirely right here. His forearms bracket me. He watches my face.
“Okay?” he says.
“Yes,” I say. “Kragen. Yes.”
He places himself at my entrance, watching, and the first press of him is—a lot. More than I expected, even knowing what I was expecting.
I breathe out. He watches my face and holds still and lets me feel the stretch of it, the fullness, the difficulty of the first moment.
“Still okay,” I tell him. It is a statement, not a question.
“Take your time,” he says. Low. His jaw is tight with the effort of not moving. I find that unbelievably sexy.
I make myself breathe, give myself time to adjust. The difficulty eases by degrees; the stretch giving way to something else, something that is not pain but is more than fullness, something that makes my whole body want to pull him in and my brain want to note that this is a remarkable situation and both of those things are happening at once.
“Okay,” I say. “Move.”
“Honey—”
“Kragen. Move.”
He moves, watching my face, and I feel all of him—the drag and the depth of it—and then careful starts to feel unbearably distant. I pull him closer. He understands immediately and changes with me.
“You feel—” He stops. Tries again. “I imagined this. So many times.” His forehead drops to mine. “It doesn’t come close.”
I pull him closer still, my fingertips digging into the flesh at his shoulders. I can feel the fine edge of his ear against my temple—a light pressure, pointed, real—and it moves through me the same way everything else tonight has: not strange, just his.
What happens then is not careful. The withdrawal and the return, every bit of it present and unavoidable, his full weight behind it.
“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me for months,” he says, strained at the edges. “Honey. Goddess. You feel—” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.
He shifts and I lose the thread of every thought I had.
He finds a rhythm that makes coherence impossible, that narrows the world down to exactly this—his weight, his heat, the sounds he makes low in his chest when the angle is right, deep, primitive, satisfied sounds I feel in my sternum as much as hear. I’d forgotten this was possible. Maybe I never knew it could be like this.
And I did not know what he would sound like when he lost control.
Now I know, and the knowing is permanent, already written somewhere in my body that will not forget.
“Honey,” he says, close to my ear. “Look at me.”
I open my eyes.
He’s looking at me. Entirely at me. Present and close and completely here. It is just him, looking at me like I am the thing he has been looking for, and I feel it land somewhere I didn’t know was available.
“My Honey,” he says softly.
With another male, I might have felt the possessiveness in those words as a warning. With Kragen, I feel it as the thing it actually is—not a claim but a recognition. Something shifts in his chest—that low rumble, continuous, moving through every point where his body meets mine. I feel it most in my sternum.
I pull him down.
We stay like this, the rhythm building past deliberate into something neither of us is steering anymore. He is warm inside me, and deep, and present, and I feel the pleasure build in a way that has no careful overlay, no managed distance, nothing between me and it. I hear myself. I don’t try to stop hearing myself.
When I come the second time it takes me completely—his name out of my mouth before I know I’m saying it, my whole body giving over to it, wave after wave, longer than I thought it could go. I’m shaking. I didn’t notice when I started.
