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“You’re beautiful,” he’d said, and she’d wondered if he was a little drunk. She’d wondered if he was very drunk. Only he wasn’t – he didn’t seem under the influence. He kissed her as he lay her down on the bed and pushed out of his shirt. Her fingers traced his naked chest, finding the ridges of his muscular abdomen, reveling in the unfamiliarity of this.
She’d been a good girl all her life.
No more.
No longer. Not tonight.
“I want you to make love to me,” she whispered, saying the words aloud for her own confidence, for her own conviction. Afraid, perhaps, that she might change her mind and chicken out at the last minute.
“Love has nothing to do with it.” He softened the pronouncement by pushing up to offer a smile, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
And his words were reassuring, because he was right. Sex and love were two distinct prospects.
“Sex. I want to have sex with you.”
He watched her as he stripped out of his pants, his eyes hungrily roaming her body, studying her, desiring her, enjoying her. She felt more beautiful then than she ever had before.
“What’s your name?” She asked, as he reached for his briefs and pushed them down. His arousal was enormous and spectacular; she couldn’t look at it.
“Does it matter?” The words were deep and throaty.
She swallowed. Her virginity was an accident. Happenstance. It meant nothing. And yet she somehow felt she ought to at least know the name of the man who was going to be her first lover.
“Yes,” she murmured.
His smile was slow to spread over his face, and then he was kissing her breasts, and she was moaning, and against her flesh, he said, “I am Vitalo.”
It sounded like vitality, and she felt his aliveness and raw power in the single word. His mouth moved lower, to her soft, feminine core and she cried out as his tongue ran over her seam and his hands spread her thighs, holding them wide so he could flick her most sensitive cluster of nerves with the tip of his tongue, making her arch her back and scratch her nails into the soft white duvet cover.
Pleasure, unexpected and intense, burst over her, splitting her in two. She called his name, loudly, spilling it from her lips over and over again until she was almost unintelligible.
He didn’t pull away. His mouth tormented her, the stubble of his chin between her thighs, rubbing her sensitive flesh until she was so overwhelmed with sensation she could no longer speak.
She lay with her eyes shut, her body pink, her breath bursting from her. There was a noise, a crinkling of something, and he thrust inside of her, hard and fast, and she jolted her eyes open as pain surged inside her.
He was right above her, his eyes looking at her with shock, first, then accusation, then anger. “What the hell?” he demanded, his breath ragged, his body held still.
“I… I meant to tell you,” she lied, ashamed that she hadn’t. Pain receded quickly, now that his initial invasion was complete, and pleasure returned. No, more than pleasure. Having him inside her was doing something strange to her. Tentatively, gently, she lifted her hips up, moaning as her body grew more and more accustomed to the feeling of his strong hardness buried in her soft core.
“Don’t stop,” she said, earnestly, her fingernails digging into his arms. “Please don’t.”
He swore under his breath and then moved, but gently now, the animalistic passion that had driven him deep inside of her on that first powerful thrust brought under control. He moved now as though he were conducting an orchestra, building it to a gentle crescendo, building it to a thundering wave rather than a bolt of lightning. But it didn’t matter what he intended, her pleasure was vibrating intensely through her, and her second orgasm splintered her apart anew. She wrapped her legs around his waist and called his name out, and then his mouth was on her breast again, his hands possessive on her body.
He stayed above her, his breathing rushed with the effort of holding his own release at bay. “And what is your name, my sweet little virgin?” He murmured, his hand lifting to her hair, dyed a soft brown a year or so earlier.
She didn’t speak at first, she was trying to process this, what they’d just done, thoughts threatening to intrude.
“Bella,” she said, belatedly.
“That’s apt.” His eyes roamed her face and then he thrust into her, so she gasped. Pleasure burst anew, her over-sensitised body trembled beneath him. “Well, Bella,” he tasted her name, rolling it around his mouth until she almost felt it on her skin, then he thrust, hard this time, his body marching to a different rhythm, filling her with a new type of lust and need, filling her with an intensity of feelings that almost tore her apart.
This time, when she reached a fever pitch of need, approaching the edge of sanity and sense, he drove her over the edge and tumbled with her, releasing himself on a guttural cry, his body wracked with pleasure.
The sound of their tortured breathing filled the room, harsh and heavy, and then he rolled off her, lying on his back beside her, staring at the ceiling, his expression impossible to decipher, his cheeks slashed with dark colour. She stared at him, reality beginning to force its way into this pleasure, beginning to force its way into her life.
“How old are you?” The question was quiet, so quiet she almost didn’t hear it.
She swallowed, blinking slowly. “Twenty five.”
