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He shoved his tip in, then more, and more, inching forward steadily, not stopping until he was buried to the hilt.
The pressure then was almost too much. He bore into me so deeply and intensely that I felt split open, exposed and raw while he held himself there, at the deepest part of me, his heavy tip smashed up against my cervix unrelentingly.
Tears stung the back of my eyelids, and I couldn’t beat them back.
I couldn’t handle it.
His possession was so extravagant and so absolute. In that moment I couldn’t hide, even from him, how it devastated me.
And in the dark room, with only the barest sliver of moonlight illuminating it through the shades, he still saw my tears.
His blunt thumb traced over each one softly.
“Shh,” his voice soothed me. “Shh. I’ll make it better.”
He dug a fist into the mattress, his other hand cupping my face almost gently as he leaned forward heavily.
And he began to move.
And my body began to quake. A body quake that took me over completely, turned me upside down and inside out.
It was almost too quick for me like that, at that deepest angle with his unstoppable thrusts that put me into exquisite distress with every dip and plunge.
He crashed into me relentlessly.
Possessing my flesh every time he bore into me, and ruthlessly taking everything in his path as he withdrew.
My hand reached up to grab the wrist of the hand that held my face, my nails digging in as I got closer to my end.
My grip was as savage as his was gentle, scoring deep scratches into his flesh.
More marks I’d be leaving on him, more proof of my ownership that wouldn’t fade with morning.
I tripped over into my release with a helpless sob.
It was so good. Nothing could compare.
Sex with Dante was so acutely satisfying that it felt both essential and damaging.
I wanted to thank him and curse him out both.
I did neither. It was something. At least I didn’t say anything I’d regret later. Instead, I only did—many, many things I could regret later.
He wasn’t far behind me, rooting deeply just five, six, seven more heady times, keeping me worked up and in distress with him, clenching around him, coming even while it felt I might peak again.
He held himself deep as he emptied inside of me, staying there while I milked out every last drop, holding my legs split open like that, stretching me so wide and for so long that I knew I’d be sore in several places come morning.
I could have slept after that. Could have passed out cold and slept deeper than I had in months.
In fact, I tried to, but he wasn’t finished. Not even close.
He’d only just begun to slake his great thirst on me, to assuage his terrible hunger.
He pulled out of me slowly, with great hesitation, dislodging himself with regret, lingering at it, moving not just out but around, shifting inside of me, making his presence and its exit known and felt.
When he was finally free of me, he flipped me onto my back like a rag doll, pushed my thighs wide apart and climbed between.
He started kissing my neck, making his way down until he was licking my nipples.
