Chapter 3 #2
Then he shifts, kneeling above me. His olive-peach skin gleams under low light, that scar above his brow a stark contrast to the hunger in his eyes.
His fingers hook into the waistband of those white boxer briefs.
He slides them down in one slow motion, and the air catches in my throat.
His cock springs free. Huge, thick-veined, and already flushed dark. Throbbing visibly like a second heartbeat.
It looks even bigger than I remember.
If that’s even possible.
Precum pearls at the tip, slick and gleaming. A viscous string stretches between the swollen head and the cotton as he finally peels the fabric past his hips, a string that snaps only when he tosses the underwear aside.
I watch, mesmerized, as he grips his shaft and his thumb casually rubs the swollen head. He groans, low and primal, spreading that slickness over his length.
His other hand fumbles for the foil packet. When it tears open, the sound shreds through the silence and he rolls the condom down meticulously, those investor’s fingers stretching latex over straining flesh.
Every ridge and vein disappears beneath the thin latex, but I remember... God, I remember... how he felt bare, when I was on the pill.
His knuckles brush his stomach as he smooths the last millimeter, a shudder rippling through his shoulders.
I tremble at the ruthless control, the animal need.
“Open for me,” he commands.
I do, and then he’s pushing inside and I forget how to breathe.
Jesus Christ.
Definitely forgot how big he is.
He goes slow, which I appreciate because I need a minute to adjust. His forehead presses against mine. One hand cups my face while the other braces beside my head.
“Okay?” he asks, his voice strained.
“More than okay,” I counter.
He starts to move and I dig my nails into his shoulders because the angle is perfect and I can already feel the pressure building again.
“You feel so good,” he murmurs. “So fucking perfect.”
Those words send heat flooding through me and I arch up to meet his thrusts.
The obscene, sweat-slick slap-slap-slap of skin on skin fills the room.
Yes—
Yes—
Yes—
Third orgasm en route.
Suddenly he makes this rough sound that goes straight to my core and my pussy involuntarily clenches.
“That’s my girl,” he says. “Take it. Take what you fucking need.”
In answer, all I can say is “Fuck fuck fuck fuck” in time to his thrusts.
I’m moving with him now, chasing the rhythm, chasing the release, and when his thumb finds my clit I actually see stars.
“Cum for me,” he commands. “Now. I want to feel it.”
And because apparently my body is now programmed to respond to his voice, I shatter.
My orgasm rips through me, my pussy clenching hard around his huge cock, with wetness gushing hot between my thighs.
I arch off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from my throat—
“Cor-in!”
His name fractures into a sob as I pulse around his cock, each spasm dragging him deeper.
He snarls into my neck, his own hips stuttering. “Fu— ck!”
I feel him swell impossibly thicker inside me before his control snaps.
“Amara—”
My name is a raw curse as he empties himself. Hot bursts flood the condom, his release throbbing in time with my aftershocks.
His sweat-slick body slaps against mine, his biceps trembling where he cages me.
I taste salt on his collarbone, feel the roar in his chest vibrate through my own.
When his teeth sink into my shoulder, claiming me, the bite sends fresh sparks down my spine.
Finally we collapse, tangled, lungs heaving.
His spent cock still twitches inside me, a fading echo of the amazing sex we just had.
For a long time we just stay like that. Tangled together. Breathing hard.
Then he carefully pulls out and disappears again to dispose of the condom. When he comes back he collapses beside me and pulls me against his chest.
I should probably establish some boundaries here. Maintain emotional distance. Remind him this is just physical.
Instead I let myself curl into him because it feels too good to resist.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder.
In the dim lamp light I can see his face clearly.
The sharp line of his jaw. The way his dark hair falls slightly across his forehead.
And that scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the one from some schoolyard fight when he was twelve.
He told me the story once, years ago, about defending a smaller kid from a bully.
I remember tracing it with my finger back then. Remember thinking it made him look dangerous and kind at the same time.
Without thinking, I lean up and press a kiss to it.
He goes very still beneath me. “Amara—”
“Sorry. I just... I don’t know.” I feel myself blushing. “Sorry.”
His hand comes up to cup the back of my head. “Don’t apologize.”
We lie there in comfortable silence. His breathing gradually evens out. Within minutes, he’s asleep.
I watch him in the darkness. Memorize the way his chest rises and falls. The way his face looks peaceful, almost vulnerable, without that careful control he always maintains.
This was supposed to be simple.
One night.
No complications.
But lying here with him, feeling his heartbeat under my palm, I know it was never going to be simple.
You’re going to hurt tomorrow.
You’re going to wake up alone and it’s going to hurt and you’re going to tell yourself it was worth it.
Was it worth it?
I don’t have an answer yet.
As quietly as possible, I slip out of bed. Find my clothes and underwear in the darkness. Get dressed without turning on any more lights.
I grab my purse from the nightstand and turn to go. But then hesitate.
I reach into the purse, grab my black gel pen. I set it down on the nightstand.
I’m not really sure why I do it.
To mark my presence?
Prove to him that he didn’t dream this? That it really happened?
Because it feels like I have to leave something behind, if only to assuage the sudden guilt I’m feeling.
I glance back once at his sleeping form.
Don’t feel guilty.
We both wanted this.
It’s time to go our separate ways again.
Hard as that is.
I hurry from the bedroom.
My shoes are by the door. I grab them but don’t put them on.
I slip out and walk barefoot across the sand toward my own villa, shoes in hand.
I don’t look back.