Prologue #3
My body goes tense, the heat of desire clashing with a jolt of apprehension.
"I don't think—" I start, but he cuts me off with a kiss, deeper this time, tongue sliding over mine with a hunger that drowns hesitation.
"I'll make it fit," he murmurs against my lips. "You'll take all of me."
I whimper, a sound that vibrates between us, and then he shifts, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance, already stretching me, teasing the place my body isn't quite ready to yield.
His hands grip my hips, anchoring me, and then he pushes in.
My breath catches on a gasp as he pushes into me, the stretch aching and obscene.
I dig my nails into his shoulders, not to stop him but to anchor myself, each inch stealing the air from my lungs.
He's thicker than I imagined, every part of me straining to take him, to hold him.
Heat floods my belly as my body clenches around him, greedy and trembling, torn between wanting him deeper and not knowing how much more I can take.
I've been robbed of all words, and instead, all I can do is just clutch him and try my best to keep myself from repeatedly moaning out his name.
He groans low, forehead pressed against mine. "So fucking tight."
My thighs tremble and my chest rises with every breath, tight and uneven.
I want to cry out, to pull away from the overwhelming stretch, but I don't.
Because beneath the ache, something warmer begins to stir.
It spreads low and slow, wild at the edges, curling under my skin like a secret I'm not ready to name.
He stays still, buried only halfway, giving me time to adjust.
His grip softens, fingers loosening just enough as one hand moves to cradle my face.
His thumb traces along my cheekbone while I breathe against his mouth, each exhale catching on the tension between us.
"Breathe, Aria."
I listen.
I let the heat ground me.
Little by little, the sharpness gives way to something fuller, something molten and unbearably deep.
He thrusts again, slow and steady, sliding further in.
I gasp, my fingers clenching around his arms as the pressure intensifies and reshapes itself into a burn that is no longer pain.
When he finally sinks in completely, thick and hard and so deep I can hardly hold the sound in my throat, my body responds with a pulse, tightening around him like I was made to keep him there.
He groans low against my skin, the sound rough and barely restrained. "Christ. You feel like heaven."
I feel undone.
Stretched open and filled in ways that make it impossible to remember where I end and he begins.
He starts to move, pulling out slowly, dragging every inch before driving back in with more force.
The pain dulls with each thrust, replaced by something heavier, wetter, more consuming.
I gasp as he fills me again, thick and hard, the stretch still intense but no longer unbearable.
My breath stutters against his mouth.
My hands claw down his back, nails catching on sweat-slicked skin.
My moans rise as he fucks me into the stone, every thrust deep, his cock rubbing hard against the spot that makes my legs shake.
"More," I whisper, the word broken and breathless. "Please."
He growls low in his chest and gives it to me.
His hips slam forward, harder and deeper, the sound of it delicious, wet, constant.
His hand finds my throat, his palm settling there with just enough pressure to keep me still, to hold me in place while my body rocks beneath his.
Every muscle in me tightens in response, my walls clenching tighter around him with every stroke.
He drops his mouth to my shoulder and bites, not softly.
My thighs lock tighter around his waist.
I feel the tension curling low in my belly, winding itself with every thrust, every grind of his pelvis against mine.
His cock drives in hard and fast, hitting so perfectly that I can barely breathe.
"Touch yourself," he says, voice rough and unsteady. "I want to feel you come."
I slide my hand between us, fingers finding my clit, already swollen and throbbing.
I rub fast, desperate circles as he pounds into me.
It doesn't take long.
I break around him with a strangled cry, my body spasming as my orgasm hits like a snap, hard and blinding.
I feel myself clamp down around him, and he groans my name against my skin, his hips jerking once, then again, before he drives in deep and stays there.
He pulses inside me, thick and hot, even through the condom.
The sound he makes is raw, almost desperate, like he's being dragged under.
We stay like that, bodies tangled, breathing hard.
He doesn't pull out.
He keeps his hand at my jaw and his mouth pressed to my throat like he needs the contact as much as the release.
When he finally pulls out, it's slow, reluctant, dragging one last moan from my throat as the emptiness sets in like a second skin.
I feel the rush of wetness between my thighs, feel the ache blooming deep in my core, but more than anything, I feel the absence of him like a wound I don't know how to name.
His hands fall away from me, and for a long moment, he doesn't move, doesn't speak, just breathes hard, his forehead brushing my temple.
Then, without a word, he steps back.
No kiss.
No lingering look.
No soft nothing.
He cleans up and refastens his belt with methodical grace, his face unreadable in the half-light, his body already retreating into that dangerous calm I'm starting to understand is his armor.
I pull down my dress in silence, smoothing the torn lace against my thighs, trembling fingers shaking through ruined silk.
He walks to the gazebo gate and opens it, pausing just once.
And then he's gone.
I don't cry.
I don't breathe.
I don't even think.
I just walk back toward the house, heels scraping over stone, throat tight and hands clenched at my sides.
I pass through the halls like a ghost, unseen.
Unspoken for.
By the time I reach my room, I am unraveling into a tangle of confusion and heat and pride that feels like it's caught in my throat.
I shower in silence, the water too hot, too sharp, scrubbing at skin that still burns with the echo of his touch.
I curl into my sheets after, but sleep doesn't come.
And then, close to midnight, my phone lights up.
Unsure of what to expect, and fully committed to giving him a piece of my mind for leaving without saying so much as a "you were great", I pick up the call.
"This can't be a one-time thing."
My breath catches.
"I told myself it would be," he continues, and it's probably the closest thing to an apology I'll ever hear from him. "But I can't stop thinking about you. I won't."
My mouth is dry.
My pulse roars in my ears.
I say nothing.
"You don't have to speak. I just need you to understand what this is now."
The line goes quiet for a beat and then he hangs up.
I stay in bed, still naked beneath the sheets, heart pounding against the silence he leaves behind.