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“It’s ours, Atlanta. Yours and mine. Nobody can ever take it from us.”
“Ours,” I murmur, then tense, anticipation building, sensing his readiness.
The next thrust bottoms out inside me, and I scream so loud the whole hotel must hear me. But the pain is accompanied by sudden relief. He’s inside me, and as he starts to move faster, I know the worst of it is over.
We become one in that moment, the squelching, slapping sound of our bodies moving together binding us in a way that words can’t express. I know him, I see a part of him that nobody before me has ever seen. The gangster is no more. This is Leo, the man. This is us. This is the rest of our lives. And I know that he sees me.
I moan and mewl, rubbing myself against the wall of the shower as he grunts and thrusts. He mutters words of encouragement, like he’s riding me into the sunset, and I start to learn new things about my body, how I can use it to squeeze him inside, to draw new sounds from his lips, but both of us know this first time can’t last forever.
When I feel him come, it’s like the tension snaps around us. His sperm fills me, and I tip over into another orgasm at the exact same moment, so that it’s impossible to know which comes first. I gasp and huff, trying to draw breath as my body quivers around him, his hands gripping tight to my waist.
“That’s my girl,” he grunts. “Milk every drop of that cum from me. It’s all yours, Atlanta. It’s just for you.” He starts to thrust again, both of us crying out with the pleasure-pain of our sensitive bodies. “Take it inside, let it plant itself right here. Fuck, the thought of you round with me. Goddamn.”
He rubs my belly, and I turn, finding him right there again. I kiss his lips, my face finally relaxing from the pounding he’s just given me, and I whisper, “I love you. I love you, Leo Brickhouse.”
“And I love you, Atlanta Smoke. You’re mine, baby, and I’m never letting you go.”
