The possessive words slide into the hungry places lurking under my defenses. I want to tell him not to say things that contradict our agreement, but his fingers inside me steal all thought. He sets a rhythm of advance and retreat, his middle finger thick and satisfying when he’s in, and denying me when he’s out. He adds another finger, stretching me. My muscles clench. My head thrashes on the bed. I claw his hair while his thumb works the sensitive bud where all my concentration and thoughts have convened. I can’t think beyond his hands and mouth. Guys have touched me there, have kissed me there, but it never felt like this. He’s tearing me up and tossing me in the air like confetti until finally I’m fluttering, floating, falling, little bits of myself swept into a storm.
“Oh, my God,” I mumble through numb lips. I’ve had a few orgasms before, mostly at my own hand, but this one made my lips go numb. My entire body is limp and boneless.
“Good?” he asks.
“Um, yeah,” I say on a startled, laughing breath. “You could say that.”
He licks greedily at the wetness kissing my thighs. “I want to make you come again just to have more of this. I’ll never forget this, Nix. I’ll smell you, taste you, in my dreams.”
Head bent, he worships at the very center, where little aftershocks still roll through me. His mouth is avid, sucking, growling, making the wild wolf noises, all pretense of civility left behind. My hips roll into him in a deep, back-cracking wave. My body is an empty chamber, and my own cries of pleasure echo, hollow and desperate.
“I need you inside me, Maxim. I’m ready.”
“I’m not,” he mumbles against my pussy, still loving and laving it. His hand wanders over my belly and ribs until he reaches my breast to squeeze and plump the nipple even while he keeps eating. The tandem of his hands and mouth sends me spiraling, flying again.
“Maxim.” I grip the sheets at my side, desperate for an anchor. “Now. Please.”
He finally stands at the foot of the bed between my knees and pulls the ribbed sweater over his head.
Every inch of him is finely constructed. The copper-coin nipples. The masonry of his chest and abs, like bricks laid with mortared muscle. When he drops his pants and briefs, the sinewy slashes at his lean hips point south, directing me to where he is fully erect, long and topped with a crown, his balls hanging low. I’ve seen men before, but I realize my inspection until now was a clinical thing, marked by indifference or even simple appreciation. My first sight of Maxim naked is anything but. His body, so beautiful and strong, sets off an impossible, primordial chant inside of me.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
Like the drums from my dance into womanhood, the beat possesses my blood and gallops through my veins as I approach another rite of passage. The drumbeat, my heartbeat—one.
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.
I want to ignore the insistent rhythm demanding I claim him, but it’s impossible. He’s stroking himself, biting his lip, his eyes roving over my body as I scoot back farther on the bed, propped against his pillows.
“Now.” It’s not a virgin voice—there’s no uncertainty of the unknown. It’s a command, a mandate for my pleasure. “Right fucking now, Doc.”
“You’re ready?” He crawls onto the bed, slips his hands between my legs and drops his forehead to mine with a groan. “You are.”
“I’m ready.”
“We should go slow, Nix.” He reaches into the dresser and puts on a condom, scanning my face, concern filtered into the desire. It only makes me want him more.
“I don’t care if it hurts,” I tell him, my voice husky and pleasure-strained. “I want it. I want you.”
His nod is terse. His lips, set. His hands are so gentle, but firm and demanding when he presses my legs wider. He props himself on his elbows, looking down at me for a moment and scattering kisses across my cheeks and then my lips. He licks into me, a tender, open-mouthed exploration that twists our tongues and heartbeats. Slowly, he eases between my legs and inside, thick and rigid and hot. An invasion by inches. A surrender by sighs. I give one pained gasp, and then he’s in so deep, for a moment I can’t breathe.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, sounding tortured. “Nix, baby, are you okay?”
“Yes.” I swallow a moan, struggling to adjust, lifting my hips.
“Fuck.” He breathes shakily into my hair. “You feel incredible.”
I move my hips again, an experiment, a line I cast into the water.
He bites.
He moves, at first a slow push and pull, and then more driving. Pounding. A freight train between my legs. Grunting and heaving and panting. It hurts so much and it feels so perfect. I must be bleeding and I couldn’t care less. With each twist of his body deeper into mine, he’s carving himself inside me, slice after blissful slice.
“You still okay?” he asks, his eyes glazed and his body mercilessly, beautifully, wonderfully taking mine.
“Stop talking,” I reply. He hits a spot that couldn’t have been there all this time dormant inside me. That spot waiting for the just-right caress of him buried inside me to erupt. The feel so good obliterates the pain. “Just fuck me.”
The sound he makes is unintelligible. We are wound together so tight, a tangled tempo of limbs and hands and lips and sweat and tears.