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"You're so fucking tight, baby," he says. "Jesus fucking Christ, unbelievable." His words, hisgroanshave a new rush of wetness helping him slide in.
"It's too much, Dante," I whisper as he continues to move into me. I don't know if I mean the way he's sliding in, or the pressure, or the pleasure, or maybe all of it combined. He's hovering above me with his forearms planted on either side of my head, his face moving back to look at mine, reading everything there.
"You're tight," he whispers, stopping.
"No, please, more," I say, a total contradiction. My body is on fire, the ache blooming into pleasure. He moves deeper and my face pinches with the stretch.
"You're so fucking tight," he groans, but it's less a groan of satisfaction and more one of torture. "For fuck’s sake, Delilah, tell me I'm the only man who's been in this cunt." I don't answer, the shame burning on my cheeks.
I'm a 26-year-old virgin, bound away in my ivory tower, away from all sources of being tainted because my father wanted me untouched for his benefit.
Pristine.
"Fucking look at me," he says, his cock throbbing in me, again that throbbing moving to something more, something better. His hand moves from the bed beside me, grabbing my face and forcing me to look into his fierce, dark eyes. In this light, I almost only see them as black, the dark brown melting into the pupil.
"Were you a virgin?" he asks, and I lick my lips, embarrassed. But that in itself is an answer, I guess. "Fucking hell," he breathes, dipping to kiss me, sinking in just a bit more, and I moan with pleasure against his lips. "Answer me, Delilah. Am I the first man to fuck you?"
I stare at him, unsure of what the correct answer is. Finally, his hand slips to my throat, his cock sliding in until our hips are flush, and I moan out, low and deep and unhinged, because every single moment of this feelsright.
I'd be lying if, despite putting little to no weight in the act itself in my mind, I told you I never thought about what my first time would be like. Awkward. Painful. Quick. Simple.
I tried over and over to lose this pesky status. Still, the amount of times a friend intercepted or my date straight-up refused is almost humorous.
In recent times, I've wondered which of my friends are on Shane's payroll.
But then Dante's hand tightens, and my eyes refocus on him, my mind stuck on the delicious throbbing between my legs.
"Answer me, Delilah."
His eyes are crazed.
I should be scared.
Any sane human would be terrified.
But still, that thread between us, that thread tying us . . .
"Yes," I say, the word a mere whisper, but the way he tightens that hand, the way his groan is nearly pained, I know he heard.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he says, the moan low and to himself. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
I panic.
I panic because for one, this obviously should have been disclosed. I'm no expert when it comes to men, but I figured sex was sex, especially for a man like this. That he wouldn't care about some hymen that probably broke ten years ago. But now, I'm thinking I was wrong.
And two, I panic because I'm sure Dante is going to pull out, roll over, and tell me to leave.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
"Dante, seriously, it's no big—" I start, but then he does the unthinkable.
The hand moves from my throat to the bed next to me and he pulls out before he slams back in.
"Oh!" I shout, a hint of pain coming before heat rolls up my spine. Pure, blissful heat that lands in my belly and starts to curl in on itself, building. "Oh!"
"Mine," he growls into my neck. "Fuck, mine. All fucking mine," he says, pulling out again and pounding into me, repeating the word.
The feeling grows, bigger than any orgasm I've given myself, so all-consuming I know I'll leave this room changed in some way.
