8. Ryan #3
I make a noise that’s more animal than human, and Camille groans, hips flexing, as he inches deeper.
“It’s too—” I gasp, unable to finish the sentence.
He doesn’t stop, but he doesn’t force it either. He holds me there, letting me feel the stretch, letting my body adjust. “Shhh,” he whispers, teeth scraping at my ear. “You can take it. Breathe, Ryan. Breathe and let me in.”
I believe him, because I want to. Because I need to. I force myself to follow his direction and breathe, to let the pain melt into something else, something that’s simultaneously worse and better, like a fever.
His cock is so big it feels like he’s punching through every boundary I’ve ever had, every last bit of resistance, and I want to scream from it.
He starts to move, slow and shallow, just the tip rocking in and out.
The pressure is so much, I can’t even process the pleasure yet—I’m riding the edge of panic, of too much, and it blurs into want.
He pets my thigh soothingly as he fucks me open, and I realize I’m crying, tears leaking out of the corners of my eyes without my permission.
Camille licks them away, not mocking, just collecting them with gentle laps of his tongue.
“So sensitive,” he murmurs.
He snaps his hips, and the next inch slides in, the pop of it making me buck, involuntary, wild. My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails raking down his back, and he groans, the sound raw and guttural.
“Again,” he says. “Mark me.”
I do. I can’t help it. Every time he pushes deeper, I claw at him, and he loves it. I want to tell him to stop, to go slower, but I want the opposite more. I want to be ruined.
He holds me open with one hand, the other pinning my wrists above my head as he finally bottoms out, flush to the hilt. It hurts, but I love it, and when he grinds into me, making little circles with his hips, the pain explodes into something searing and bright.
I’m flooded, awash, and leaking, my body clenching around this insane pressure, and Camille is relentless now, grinding into me, releasing my wrists to instead wrap his hand around my throat, and bending to bite the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
I can’t breathe, I can’t think, I can only survive, and my pulse is beating so fast I can’t tell if I’m moaning or sobbing or just blowing air, lost in the addictive, annihilating rhythm.
He fucks me hard, every thrust punching out small, desperate noises from the pit of my gut.
His hand doesn’t waver from my throat, keeping my body stretched out and helpless.
The violence of it feels weirdly safe, and there’s a corner of my brain that wants to thank him for it.
I’m so raw I can’t even close my eyes, so I stare up at his face, contorted with want and focus, sweat beading at his brow, his teeth bared as he bears down.
He bends to kiss me again, messy and open-mouthed, and now I taste blood on my lips, iron and spit and feral hunger.
I bite his lip, and he shudders, slamming into me in reply, filling me so deep I choke on my own gasp.
My whole body arches, every muscle banded with a cutting pleasure, my nails carving lines into the velvet.
“God, fuck, fuck— ” I’m not even human anymore, just a conduit for sensation, every nerve hooked to the axis of our bodies.
He lets go of my throat and brings both hands to my hips, holding me harshly and rutting into me with mechanical regularity.
My abs flex, my thighs trembling, and underneath it all the shameful thrill of being fucked like this, of being nothing but a sheath, a hole, a goddamn vessel, and loving it so much it burns away every cell of fear.
He places one hand on my low belly, pressing down and grinding his palm against the outline of his cock, and it’s so much, too much, I claw at his forearm to make it stop, but he just says, “Take it, petit chaton,” and the command in his voice is a switchblade.
I come again, pulse after pulse, hoarse and stupid with need.
He follows a few strokes later, biting down hard on my shoulder as he rams and then spills inside me, a hot rush that makes me whimper with relief.
We’re both shaking and heaving, our chests pressed together in the humid dark.
He’s heavy, but I can’t bear for him to let me go.
I listen to his heartbeat, fast and irregular, so close it could be my own.
There are tears on my cheeks—maybe his too; I can’t tell.
He nuzzles my neck and breathes out a soft, almost reverent sound.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with ruin.
For a long time, neither of us moves. I don’t want to move. Being held feels safe, even if it’s by a man whose cock is still inside me, whom I should not trust, whom I barely know.
But it’s fine, because I don’t want to know him, at least not much more than this. I don’t need to feel pressure to learn all his likes and dislikes, or worry about what the future holds for us.
I’ll go back to the U.S. in a few weeks with some money in my pocket from the sale of the cottage and the best sex I’ll probably ever have in my life as a cache of memories.