40. Adrian #2
A slow, rough smile curves my lips, one that feels more real than any smirk. “Then I’ll die worshipping.” My hands find the headboard behind me, knuckles white as I grip it, holding her gaze. “Come here. Let me.”
The battle wages in her eyes—fear against need.
Then something in her breaks, allowing her to choose me.
She crawls over me, her movements hesitant, trembling, yet determined.
When she finally lowers herself, the first sweet, intoxicating taste of her brushes my tongue.
A deep, visceral groan tears from my throat, the sound reverberating through her.
My hands clamp to her hips, pulling her down, closer.
I bury myself in her taste, in her unique scent, a frenzied symphony of licking and sucking until her entire body is trembling above me.
Her fingers clutch frantically at the headboard, her thighs quivering as she begins to rock into my mouth, a dance of pure pleasure.
“Oh God—Adrian,” she moans, her voice fragmenting. “Don’t stop.”
I can’t answer, so I groan into her, letting her feel my need.
She moves with me, a rhythmic grinding against my mouth, losing herself until her cries shatter into the air and her body trembles violently against my grip.
Her release crashes through her, and I don’t stop, not until she collapses, utterly spent, sliding off to the side.
With an ease born of desire, I flip us, hovering over her, tasting her on my lips as I kiss her.
The kiss is slow, deep, reverent. Not a claim of possession, but a promise.
I pull back, needing to see her face in the soft glow of the fairy lights.
She looks at me, her eyes wide and trusting.
The thought of putting anything, even a thin layer of latex, between us feels like a betrayal.
Like something that belongs to the man I was yesterday, not the one I want to be with her tonight.
“Clara,” I say, my voice hoarse with a terrifyingly new vulnerability. “I need to feel you. All of you. No barrier between us.”
I see the flicker of fear in her eyes, the quick, sharp calculation. I’m asking for her absolute, unconditional trust. I expect her to say no.
Instead, she stares at me for a long moment, her gaze searching mine. Then she gives a single, decisive nod. “I’m on the pill,” she says, her voice quiet but steady.
Relief crashes through me, so potent it makes my head swim. She’s trusting me. I owe her the same safety. “I’m clean,” I say, my voice thick. “Tested at the start of the season. I swear to you, Clara. I’m safe.”
She nods again. The deal is sealed. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, a ragged sound in the quiet. The last wall between us has just crumbled to dust.
I move over her, settling between her legs.
Her hands come up to cup my face, her thumbs stroking my jaw.
I’ve never done this before. Not with anyone.
The thought should scare me, but all I feel is a desperate need to be closer than I’ve ever been to anyone.
The first touch of my skin against hers is a jolt of pure electricity.
Her breath hitches, a sharp gasp that vibrates through my bones.
It’s more real, more potent, than anything I have ever felt.
Then, slowly, reverently, I push inside her.
An inch. Two. The feeling of her stretching to take me, of her slick, tight heat surrounding me, is an agony of pure pleasure.
A guttural groan is torn from my throat.
This is it. This is her. Not a fantasy. Not a memory.
Her. For the first time in my life, I understand what it means to feel like you’re coming home.
It’s not just physical; it’s a feeling of rightness, of finally being in the one place I’m supposed to be.
I bury myself to the hilt, and we both let out a ragged breath.
I stay there for a long moment, completely still, just feeling her pulse beat against mine.
I start to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that is all about her.
I want to memorize this: the way her body feels, the way her muscles clench around me.
My internal monologue, usually a chaotic storm of anger and strategy, goes quiet.
There is only this. Only her. Her scent of vanilla and clean skin and the sharp, metallic tang of her arousal.
The sight of her flushed face in the soft light, her eyes half-lidded.
The feeling of her nails digging into my shoulders, anchoring me.
“Adrian,” she whispers, the sound a broken prayer. “You feel… everything.”
“I know,” I murmur against her lips. “Fucking perfect. You feel perfect, Clara. Made for me.”
This isn’t about taking; it’s about being taken.
She’s taking every last piece of my control, my focus, my sanity, and I’m giving it to her.
I pull back just enough to watch her eyes flutter open, a silent plea in their depths.
I drive back in, deeper, and a raw, beautiful cry escapes her lips. That sound is everything.
Her climax builds, a rising tide I feel in the frantic tightening of her muscles, in the way her breath catches and holds.
I chase it with her, my own control shredding with every powerful thrust. When she finally comes apart, her body arching up into mine, my name a raw scream on her lips, it’s the final push I need.
I let go, a wave of pure, white-hot release crashing through me as I come deep inside her, her own name a ragged curse on my lips.
I collapse onto her, my forehead resting against hers, our bodies slick with sweat. I stay buried inside her, unwilling to break the connection, feeling the last of her shudders. She feels boneless beneath me, completely wrecked and utterly mine.
Afterward, as we lie tangled in her sheets, her head on my chest, my hand stroking her hair, the silence is peaceful.
“Adrian?” she whispers into the dark.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,” she says softly. “For today.”
I hold her tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Thank you for letting me in.”
And as she falls asleep in my arms, I know that my world has irrevocably shifted. The game, the pressure, my father—it all still exists. But they are no longer the center of my universe. She is.