3. Selene #2
He withdraws his fingers slowly, deliberately, and brings them to his mouth.
He sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving mine, and I watch his tongue trace the length of each digit, tasting me, claiming me.
Then he unbuttons his shirt, shrugs it off, revealing the full landscape of his chest—tattoos and muscle and scars, the geography of a man who has built and fought and survived.
His hands return to my body, lifting my dress over my head, leaving me naked against the door while he's still in his jeans.
He steps back, just enough to look at me, and the hunger in his eyes is terrifying.
He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world, like he would burn the house down to keep me, like he already has.
"On the bed," he says. "Now."
I move, my legs unsteady, and climb onto his gray sheets.
He follows, stripping off his jeans, his briefs, and then he's naked—six-foot-six of muscle and ink and cock, ten inches thick and curved and pulsing against his stomach, the head flushed and leaking.
He's enormous. I knew he was big—I felt him against my back, tried to wrap my hand around him and failed—but seeing him, fully hard, fully exposed, fully intending to put that inside me, makes my breath catch with something between desire and fear.
He kneels between my thighs, his hands gripping my knees, spreading me wide. He positions himself at my entrance, just the head pressing against my folds, and I feel the heat of him, the impossible size, the pressure that makes my body scream both yes and no.
"Look at me," he commands.
I do. His eyes are dark, his jaw tight, his control hanging by a thread.
He pushes forward—just the head, just pressure, just enough to stretch me open around him—and I scream.
The pain is immediate, sharp, splitting. He's too big. Too thick. Too much. My body fights him, tightening, rejecting, even as my mind begs for more. I claw at his shoulders, my nails drawing blood, my back arching off the bed.
He freezes.
Every muscle in his body goes rigid. His cock throbs against my entrance, pulsing with his heartbeat, but he doesn't move. He looks down at me—at my tears, my open mouth, my body trembling beneath him—and something breaks in his face.
"Selene," he says, his voice strained, broken, nothing like the command it was before.
"I can take it," I sob, even though I can't, even though my body is telling him no with every flutter and spasm. "Please, Daddy, I can?—"
"No."
He pulls back, slowly, carefully, and the loss of him is almost as painful as the entry. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving, his cock thick and straining and wet with my arousal, curving upward against his stomach. Ten inches of denied claiming, pulsing with every heartbeat.
"Not tonight," he says, his voice rough. "I'll hurt you. I'll tear you. I won't?—"
"I don't care?—"
"I care." He gathers me in his arms, pulling me against his chest, his heart hammering against my cheek. "I care too much to hurt you. Not like this. Not when you're not ready."
I cry against his neck, frustrated and relieved and overwhelmed, my body still throbbing with denied orgasm, my entrance burning with the ghost of his size.
He holds me, strokes my hair, tells me I'm brave, I'm perfect, I'm his good girl.
He whispers praise into my sweat-dampened hair until my sobbing slows, until I can breathe again, until I'm limp and exhausted in his arms.
Then he shifts.
He settles between my thighs again, but lower, his hips dropping until the heavy weight of his cock rests against the soft skin of my inner thighs.
The length of him burns against me, ten inches of thick, veined flesh pulsing with a heartbeat I feel through my own skin.
The head, flushed dark and leaking steadily, nudges my folds without entering, spreading my wetness across both of us, coating his shaft until he gleams in the lamplight.
"Like this," he murmurs, his voice stripped to gravel and restraint. "Just like this. Until you can take all of me."
He grips his base with one hand, angles himself, and slides forward.
The heat of him sears my swollen lips, the ridge of his crown dragging through my slit with a slick sound that fills the room.
I gasp, my spine arching off the bed, my hands finding his shoulders and digging in.
He pulls back, the friction almost too much, almost pain, then thrusts forward again.
The head of him bumps my clit with every pass, a heavy, deliberate pressure that makes my vision spark white at the edges.
"Please," I whimper, my voice unrecognizable, broken. "Oh please, Daddy?—"
"Quiet," he commands, his jaw tight, veins standing out in his neck like rivers on a map. "Let me feel you. Let me use this pretty pussy without breaking it."
He settles between my thighs, his cock sliding through my slick folds, the thick shaft dragging against me with every stroke.
I'm so wet I can feel the heat of it pooling between us, coating him completely, turning each thrust into a filthy glide that sounds like skin and hunger and need.
The head of him catches my clit on every forward pass, swollen and sensitive, dragging a broken cry from my throat that I bite back against his shoulder.
I can feel everything—the veins beneath the surface, the ridge of him, the impossible thickness that stretches my inner thighs apart.
He's so big that even this, not quite penetration, feels like being split open, like my body is learning the shape of him by friction alone.
The head nudges my entrance with every third stroke, pressing just enough to stretch the ring of muscle, to remind me what I can't take yet.
I feel the burn of it, the ache, the promise of more.