Connor
Her hands are on my face, and I can't think.
Both palms. One on the good side, one on the ruined side, holding me like neither one matters more than the other. Her thumbs trace the line of my jaw, and when her left thumb brushes the ridge of the scar, I flinch out of instinct, and she presses harder, not letting me pull away.
"Don't hide from me," she whispers.
I close my eyes. The dead one is already dark, but I close the working one because the way she's looking at me is too much, too open, too full of something I don't know how to receive.
"Anya." My voice comes out wrecked. "I need you to know something."
"Okay."
"I've been trying not to think about you.
" A breath that shakes on the way out. "Every day this week, I've been trying, and it hasn't worked.
Not once. I can't focus, I can't sleep, I can't be in a room with you without.
.." I trail off because the words feel too big for my mouth.
"Every night, every morning, I've had to take care of myself just to function.
Just to sit across from you at breakfast without losing my mind.
And it doesn't help. Nothing helps. You're in my head constantly and I can't get you out. "
She's quiet for a moment. Her fingers trace along the scar, down through the brow, past the dead eye, to the corner of my mouth.
"Good," she says.
I open my eyes and blink at her.
She's smiling. Like hearing that I've been falling apart over her is the best thing anyone's ever told her.
"I want to be in your head," she says. "I want to be the thing you can't stop thinking about. Because you're the thing I can't stop thinking about, and it's nice to know I'm not alone in it."
I kiss her. Slower than the altar, slower than the garden.
I take my time because I need her to feel what I can't say, that she's not a transaction or an arrangement or a solution to a Council mandate.
She's the woman who said yes when anyone else would have run, and I've been hers since the second she didn't look away.
Her fingers slide into my hair and she pulls me closer, rising onto her toes, and I wrap my arms around her and hold her against me, and for a long moment we just stand there in the dark, kissing like we have all the time in the world.
Then her hands drop to my jacket and push it off my shoulders, and the mood shifts.
"Wait." I catch her wrists. Gently. She looks up at me, confused, and I can see the flash of worry that she's done something wrong. "It's not... I'm not stopping. I just..." I bring her hands to my mouth and press a kiss to each palm. "I want to go slow."
"Why?"
"Because it's your first time."
Her cheeks flush. "How do you know that?"
"Diomid told me." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "He didn't say it to embarrass you. He said it so I'd understand what you're giving me."
She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see her deciding whether to be annoyed at her brother or grateful. Grateful wins, barely.
"I'm not fragile, Connor."
"I know you're not fragile. But this matters. You matter." I tip her chin up with one finger. "So, we go slow. And if anything feels wrong, you tell me, and I stop. No questions."
"And if everything feels right?"
"Then I keep going until you tell me to stop."
Her breath hitches. She nods.
I start with the dress.
I turn her around, slowly, and she lets me.
The row of pearl buttons down the back catches the moonlight, tiny and delicate, and I work them open one at a time.
My fingers are too big for this, clumsy against the small loops, and it takes forever, which is fine because I can feel her breathing quicken with each button I undo, feel the shiver run through her every time my knuckles brush bare skin.
Halfway down, I press my mouth to the back of her neck.
She makes a sound, soft and startled, and her head drops forward.
I kiss the nape of her neck, following the trail of buttons with my lips.
Her skin is warm and smooth and she smells like something floral, and I take my time because I meant what I said. Slow. Even if slow is killing me.
The last button opens and the dress loosens around her. She catches it at the front, holding it against her chest, and looks at me over her shoulder.
"Your turn," she says.
I pull my shirt over my head. I don't make a performance of it, but I don't rush either. Her eyes track over my chest, my stomach, the same way they did in the gym, and the heat in them makes my blood run thick and heavy.
She lets the dress fall.
It pools at her feet in a puddle of ivory silk, and underneath is white lace. A bra that's barely there, sheer enough that I can see the dark peaks of her nipples through the fabric, and matching underwear that sits low on her hips and makes my mouth go dry.
"Jesus Christ," I breathe.
The moonlight paints her skin silver, turning the white lace into something almost ethereal, but there's nothing fragile about the way Anya looks at me.
Her eyes are dark, and her chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths that make her breasts strain against the sheer bra.
The flush has spread all the way down to the tops of her tits, and I want to trace it with my tongue.
I step into her space, crowding her until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She doesn't retreat. Instead, she tilts her chin up, defiant and eager, and reaches for the button of my pants.
"Wait," I say again, catching her wrists in one hand. My voice is rougher than I intend, but I can't help it. She's too much, too beautiful, too willing, too mine. "Slow, remember?"
Her eyes flash with something hot and impatient. "Connor, I've waited four days. I don't want slow."
A low chuckle rumbles out of me despite the ache in my cock. "You'll get what I give you, wife."
The word wife is like a spark on dry tinder. Her breath catches, and she tests my grip on her wrists, not trying to break free so much as feeling the strength there. I see the moment it registers, that I'm bigger, stronger, and fully in control now that we're alone behind a locked door.
I release her wrists only to slide my hands down her sides, palms skimming the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips.
The lace panties are so delicate I could rip them off with one tug, but I don't. I hook my fingers in the waistband and drag them down her legs slowly, dropping to one knee in front of her as I go.
She steps out of them, and when I look up, her pussy is right there, the patch of dark hair already glistening with arousal.
"Fuck, Anya," I groan. "You're soaked."
She makes a small, embarrassed sound, but her hands fist in my hair, tugging me closer instead of pushing me away. "Then do something about it."
Demanding little thing. The corner of my mouth kicks up.
I press a kiss to the inside of her thigh, then higher, breathing her in, musky, sweet, her.
My tongue flicks out, tasting her, and her hips jerk forward with a sharp gasp.
I grip her ass with both hands to hold her still and lick into her properly, slow drags of my tongue over her clit, then dipping lower to push inside her tight heat.
"Connor—" Her voice breaks on my name. Her legs tremble, but she doesn't pull away. She spreads them wider, one hand still tangled in my hair, the other braced on my shoulder. "Oh God, yes—more."
I give her more. I suck her clit between my lips, flicking it with my tongue until she's grinding against my face, chasing the pleasure with zero shame.
She's wild, hips rolling, soft little moans turning into whimpers, thighs squeezing around my ears when I slide two fingers inside her and curl them just right.
She's tight, so fucking tight, and the thought of sinking my cock into that heat has me grinding my aching dick against the edge of the bed for any friction I can get.
When her walls start fluttering around my fingers, I pull back.
She makes a frustrated noise, eyes flying open. "Don't you dare stop—"
I stand up, towering over her, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. "Lie on the bed, Anya. Now."
Her eyes narrow, but there's heat there, not anger.
She climbs onto the mattress, kneeling in the center, still wearing that sheer bra.
I shed the rest of my clothes quickly, allowing my cock to spring free, thick and heavy, and already leaking at the tip.
Her gaze drops to it and she licks her lips.
"Like what you see?" I ask, echoing that morning in the gym.
"Still deciding," she shoots back, but her voice is breathless, and she reaches for me.
I catch her hand again, guiding it to my cock. Her fingers wrap around me, small and warm, and she strokes once, experimentally. I groan, hips bucking into her touch. "Harder."
She does, tightening her grip, twisting her wrist on the upstroke. Fuck, she's a quick study. But I don't let her play for long. I push her back onto the pillows, coming down over her, caging her with my arms on either side of her head.
I kiss her deeply, letting her taste herself on my tongue. She moans into my mouth, legs wrapping around my waist, trying to pull me closer. Her heels dig into my ass, insistent.
"Connor, please," she gasps when I break the kiss to trail my mouth down her throat. "I need you inside me."
I reach behind her and unhook the bra, pulling it from her shoulders and tossing it aside. Her tits spill free, full, soft, nipples tight and dark. I take one in my mouth, sucking hard while my hand palms the other. She arches off the bed with a cry, fingers scrabbling at my back, nails digging in.
"Yes—like that—"
I switch sides, biting gently, then soothing with my tongue. My free hand slides between her legs again, circling her clit until she's writhing, hips lifting, chasing my touch.
"Connor, I'm going to—"
"Not yet."
The head of my cock nudges her entrance. She's dripping, coating me already. I brace one hand beside her head and look down at her.
"Eyes on me," I say.
She obeys, locking those gold-flecked brown eyes on mine.
I push in slowly, inch by inch, watching her face for any sign of pain. She's tight, her body resisting at first, but she breathes through it, one hand on my chest, the other gripping my bicep.
"Breathe, Anya," I murmur, kissing her forehead, her temple, the scar side of my face brushing her cheek. "You've got me. And I’ve got you."
She nods, and when I'm fully buried to the hilt, her walls clenching around me like a vice, she lets out a shaky moan. "God, you feel so good."
I hold still, giving her time, but she doesn't want it. Her legs tighten around me, heels digging in again. "Move, Connor. Fuck me."
The demand snaps the last thread of my control. I pull back and thrust in hard, setting a deep, steady rhythm. The bed creaks under us. Her tits bounce with every stroke, and I can't resist leaning down to suck one into my mouth again while I drive into her.
Anya is loud. Not shy at all. She moans my name, gasps encouragements—"harder," "deeper," "right there.
" Her nails rake down my back; her hips rise to meet every thrust. She's wild beneath me, taking everything I give and demanding more, her body arching, pussy fluttering around my cock as she gets closer.
I shift my angle, hitting that spot inside her that makes her cry out. One hand slides between us to rub her clit in tight circles.
"Come for me, wife," I growl against her ear. "Let me feel you."
Her back bows off the bed, walls clamping down on me in rhythmic pulses, a broken cry tearing from her throat. I keep thrusting through it, drawing it out, until her body goes limp and trembling beneath me.
But I'm not done.
She makes a broken sound of surprise when I pull out and flip her onto her stomach, pulling her hips up so she's on her knees, ass in the air. She pushes back against me immediately, greedy even after coming.
"Again," she demands, voice hoarse. "Don't stop."
I grip her hips and push back in, the new angle letting me go even deeper. She fists the sheets, pushing back to meet me thrust for thrust. I reach around and find her clit again, rubbing in time with my strokes.
"Connor—fuck—I'm going to come again—"
"Yes, Anya. Give it to me."
She shatters a second time, muffling her scream in the pillow.
The feel of her pulsing around me drags me right to the edge.
But it’s when she says, “Please Connor, fill me with your hot cum,” that I can’t hold back any longer.
I bury myself as far as I can go and come with a guttural groan, hips jerking as I fill her cunt.
After a moment, I pull out carefully and help her turn before sliding my fingers into her and keeping them there.
She's smiling, sated, a little dazed.
I drop a kiss on the corner of her mouth. "You okay?"
"Better than okay." She presses a kiss to my scarred cheek, then my lips. "That was... worth waiting for."
I laugh softly, pulling her closer. "We're just getting started."
She hums in agreement, already half-asleep against me, her body warm and soft and perfectly fitted to mine. I gently massage her internal walls, making sure she keeps all my cum in there.
For the first time since I was nineteen, the voice in my head, the one that says no one could want this face, this body, this life, is quiet.