2. Cade #2
I climb onto the bed, the frame dipping under my weight, and settle my hips between her spread thighs. They tremble instantly when I push them wider, her knees falling open like an offering.
The scent of her hits me—musky, sweet arousal mixed with the faint salt of ocean air still clinging to her skin. She's soaked. I can see the slick shine of it coating her folds, glistening under the moonlight, and the raw need that crashes through me is so violent I have to stop.
My jaw locks tight enough to ache. I fist the sheets on either side of her hips, knuckles whitening, and drag in a slow breath that does nothing to calm the thunder in my veins.
Patient. I have waited thirty-three years for a woman to wreck me like this. I can be patient for her.
I lower my head between her legs, the heat of her pussy radiating against my face. She tastes like salt and heat and something sharper, feminine and addictive, that coats my tongue the moment I drag it slowly up her center.
Her hips jerk hard off the mattress at the first real contact, a broken whimper escaping her throat.
Her hands fly to my hair, fingers twisting in the short strands, nails scraping my scalp in a way that sends electricity straight to my cock.
I flatten my tongue and lick again, slower this time, savoring the way her thighs clamp around my ears like she can't decide whether to pull me closer or push me away.
"Cade—"
My name fractures in her mouth, breathless and desperate, and it punches straight through my chest. Mine. She said she had never been touched, and now her virgin pussy is dripping on my tongue. The thought locks something dark and possessive into place inside me.
I work her with deliberate strokes, learning every reaction—the way her breath hitches when I circle her clit, the soft, wet sounds of my mouth on her, the desperate little gasps that climb higher each time I suck the swollen bud between my lips.
Her hips roll and chase, grinding against my face, but I pin her down with one heavy forearm across her lower belly, holding her exactly where I want her so I can take my time.
Her thighs shake violently around my head.
She's close. I feel it in the way her walls flutter against my tongue, hear it in the frantic pitch of her breathing, the way her fingers yank harder at my hair like she's trying to anchor herself.
I stop.
The sudden absence pulls a raw, frustrated noise from her—half protest, half bewildered whimper. I press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the soft, trembling skin of her inner thigh, then bite down gently, just enough to leave a faint mark she'll feel tomorrow.
The taste of her is still thick on my lips as I kiss my way up her body, dragging my stubble across her freckled skin, feeling every shiver and hitch of breath.
Her chest heaves under me, nipples hard and begging.
I settle my weight over her again, my cock—thick, heavy, leaking—pressing insistently against her entrance.
The slick heat there makes my vision blur at the edges.
She matters. This matters. The virginity she blurted out downstairs like a live grenade—she's giving it to me. Not my brothers. Me.
My cock presses against her entrance, hot and slick with her arousal and my spit. I reach between us, grip the base, and line myself up. I push in an inch.
She winces, her whole body tensing beneath me, inner muscles clamping down like a vise.
I stop immediately, pulling back just enough to ease the pressure.
My free hand strokes up her side, thumb brushing the underside of one breast, trying to soothe.
Try again. Slower this time. Another inch.
Her face scrunches—pure pain flickering across those wide blue eyes, not pleasure—and I freeze again, heart hammering against my ribs.
"Breathe, baby."
She does, a shaky inhale that makes her breasts brush my chest. I push forward another careful inch, stopping the second she tenses. I wait, buried just inside her, feeling her body adjust around me, fluttering and opening by degrees.
The stretch is obscene—her virgin cunt so tight it borders on pain for both of us. But I don't rush. I watch her face the entire time, cataloging every micro-expression, every flutter of her lashes, every ragged breath that ghosts across my throat.
I'm halfway in when she shifts her hips experimentally, taking me deeper on her own. Her eyes flutter closed, lips parting on a soft, surprised moan.
"Look at me."
Her gaze snaps back to mine, glassy and overwhelmed.
I push the rest of the way in with one steady thrust, burying myself to the hilt.
Her mouth falls open. A punched-out breath explodes from her lungs as her walls spasm around every thick inch of me, so tight and wet and perfect I have to lock every muscle to keep from coming on the spot.
I don't move. I let her adjust, feeling the rhythmic pulse of her pussy squeezing me, milking me without mercy. My sweet little stepsister. In my bed. Wrapped around my cock like she was made for it. The wrongness of it only makes me harder.
"Okay?"
She nods, the movement jerky, her freckled cheeks flushed dark.
I pull out halfway, then thrust back in—slow, controlled, giving her time to adjust to the stretch, to the fullness of having a man inside her for the first time.
She gasps, nails digging into my shoulders.
I set a measured rhythm, each stroke deep and deliberate, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.
She's biting her lip hard enough to leave marks, brow furrowed in concentration as her body slowly begins to soften around me, the pain melting into something hotter, wetter, more urgent.
Every slick slide of my cock through her tight heat drags a new sound from her throat, and I swallow every one like it's mine to keep.
"Tell me what you need."
"I don't—" She breaks off. Tries again. "Harder. I won't break."
The words snap something loose in my chest.
I pull out until only the swollen head of my cock remains nestled between her slick folds, her pussy clenching greedily around nothing, then I slam back in with one brutal stroke.
Her head snaps back against the pillow, that mass of red waves scattering like spilled ink. A raw, broken cry tears from her throat—half surprise, half pure, filthy pleasure—and the sound sinks straight into my balls.
I do it again. Harder. Deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin fills the room, obscene and perfect, mingling with the distant crash of waves beyond the open glass doors. Her tight little cunt flutters wildly around me, so hot, so wet, sucking me in like it was carved specifically for this. For me.
Her nails gouge into my shoulders, sharp crescents of pain that only spur me on. Restraint splinters apart inside my chest like brittle glass. No more careful thrusts.
No more slow, measured rhythm. Just raw, starving need.