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“I’m not going to judge your apartment, Della,” I say.
I leave out the other part.
That one day, I’m going to buy us a big house, large enough to fill with laughter and children.
I move away before the kiss becomes something else.
I’m on edge, struggling to hold myself back from doing more with her, struggling not to kiss her fully on the lips.
Once we’re inside and I know nobody else is going to see, I can’t withhold my desire anymore.
She makes that sexy whimpering noise as I push her up against the wall, my hands slipping to her hips, pressing possessively as our mouths follow their instinct. She opens her mouth, her tongue finding mine, and we stay like that, clashing, indulging.
My cock gets solid as I push against her, feeling my manhood push right up against her belly, the tip aching with precome.
With an effort, I step away, my hands trembling.
“I told you I’d be good,” I say with a smirk.
Her expression shivers, her flushed cheeks trembling. It’s like her desire to take my seed, to take every last drop I’ll give her, is bursting up through her body.
She reaches over and places her hand on my chest.
“I thought I’d be so nervous being with you,” she murmurs.
“Why?”
I touch her hand, fighting the need to guide her down toward my cock. She’ll be the first woman to ever touch me there, and that’s the way itshouldbe.
I don’t give a damn about society, about playboy culture, about any of that.
I’m glad I waited for my woman.
Nobody could ever compete.
“It’s so different from texting,” she murmurs.
“We’re the same people, Della. Texting or not.”
“No,” she says. “Texting is easier. There’s less….”
“Less?” I move closer, wrapping my arms around her again, this time making an effort not to let my hands glide down to her hips or her ass, even as my seed swells and orders me to claim her soaked virgin slit. “Less what?”
“Of a block in my head?” she says, laughing softly.
“You can say anything in person you’d say in a text.”
She nods, then asks, “Do you want a drink or something?”
“Sure,” I tell her. “A water’s fine.”
She gestures through the open-plan apartment to the living room. “Make yourself at home.”
The apartment is a little rundown, but it’s neat and clean, and clearly, some effort has gone into decorating. Rugs crisscross on the floor, and photos hang on the walls.
I wander over to one of Della, Hudson, and presumably her parents.
Della’s a little kid here, all gap-toothed smiling.
