“So hard. I want to taste this,” I play with the moisture at the tip.
“Fuuuuuck, I may die.”
“Lance, look at me.” He brings grey eyes to mine. “I want this inside of me, now.”
“Harper, I don’t want to hurt you.”
He reaches between us; stretching me, rubbing me, beckoning, playing me perfectly.
“Would you rather it be someone else?”
His whole body tenses, as my heart thunders. And that’s when I lose my breath. His fingers stop, his breath stutters before he brings answering eyes to mine. In them, I see jealousy, possession, and I take those seconds to enjoy them. His hungry mouth descends as we lose the rest of our clothing. Once bare, he sinks between my legs, his eyes roaming appreciatively down my body before he plants his forearms next to me and we lock gazes.
“Sure?”
I nod again, and he reaches for a condom in his bedside table.
Once fitted, he slowly presses in, stealing my breath. Hands on his chest, I stare up at him breathing through the discomfort and nod my head. He presses in again, and white-hot pain sears through me as I arch off the bed into his chest. He holds me there, to him, his breaths ragged at my ear, I feel torn, I feel breakable, I feel precious to him. It burns, and I do my best to control my whimper.
“I’m not really getting the fuss,” I joke stupidly before silvery eyes meet mine. And then he kisses me, so deeply that the burn fades briefly, the thrust of his tongue is hypnotizing. It’s everything, everything. I know I feel for him, it was inevitable, but the feeling that it’s fleeting has me hanging onto every second. I bat that thought away and let him kiss me, let him shower me with the affection I’ve been starving for.
Because underneath him I feel perfect, not just adequate or passable.
I feel precious.
I feel beautiful.
He gently presses me back into the pillow with his kiss, his hands pushing away my hair.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
He gently rears back, and then it’s burning again. I don’t make a sound, I just stare up at him with parted lips, trying to soak in everything, the curve of his biceps, the strain in his chest, the longing in his eyes, his fast breaths, the way the sheet drapes over the curve of his ass.
“Harper,” he whispers, gliding in and out easily now. The pain still lingers, but it’s the pulse at his neck I’m studying, the weight of him on top of me, I’m memorizing. Girl
s like me don’t often get to keep guys like Lance.
I want to make that a lie. I want to believe we’re different. I want to believe that he’s capable of committing to me, of looking at me the same way for a thousand days to come, and a thousand days after. But I meant what I said. I won’t ever put my dreams on hold for any man, no matter how magnificent said man is.
So, this is what obsession feels like.
I’m smitten. Totally rapt, and I allow myself to warp and be shaped by it. It’s incredible and consuming. It’s everything I thought it would be.
“Better?” He prompts, his thrusts picking up.
“No, how are you doing?”
His grin is misplaced in the moment due to my uncontrollable mouth, but beautiful, and I love the sight of it.
“Fucking perfect.”
“Should I be doing something here?”
“Not this time,” he whispers through a pleasure-filled grunt.
“I’ll improvise,” I wrap my legs around his back and squeeze his hips with my thighs.
“Jesus, Harper,” he moans.