Page 149 of Lorenzo

The orgasm that tears through me is violent, intense, and all-consuming.

My entire body goes taut, then starts to shake, and I scream as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me.

I'm aware of him groaning my name as he keeps thrusting into me, prolonging my orgasm.

I have no idea how long it goes on for, but I know my vision goes black, and I can hear a vague ringing in my ears. By the time my pussy clamps down on him, milking him, I'm a mess.

His hips jerk, and he slams into me, filling me with his own release, and it sets my sensitive pussy off again. I cry out as another, smaller orgasm rolls through me, and this one is gentle. A sweet, warm wave that seems to go on forever.

I'm completely limp, my limbs heavy and unresponsive. I can't move. I can't think. I can only feel. His weight on top of me, his cock still inside me, the rapid beating of his heart against my chest.

He collapses on top of me, but he's careful not to crush me. He buries his face in my neck, and I can feel his ragged breath against my skin.

We lie like that for a long time, our bodies tangled together, our breathing slowly returning to normal. I wrap my arms around him, holding him to me, and he makes a soft, contented sound in his chest.

I've never felt so safe. So complete. So cherished.

And it's terrifying.

I don't do this. I don't do this... connection thing.

It's dangerous. It's a vulnerability.

It's a weakness.

And I am not weak.

I'm suddenly desperate to get away, to put some space between us, to reclaim myself.

I start to squirm, trying to get out from under him.

He lifts his head, and the look on his face is a mixture of satisfaction and concern.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Fine," I say, and push at his chest. "You're heavy."

But instead of getting off of me, as I wanted him to, he simply rolls slightly to the side and takes me with him, trapping me in his arms. My chest is pressed against his, and he is still inside me, and I am well and truly stuck.

I sigh. He is just as good at thinking ahead as I am, which is, frankly, annoying.

"You're not getting away that easily," he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair.

"I wasn't trying to get away," I lie. "I'm just... hot."

"Liar," he says.

I want to argue, but he's right.

I want to tell him to let me go, but I don't really want him to. I like being held by him. I like the feel of his arms around me, the solid warmth of his body next to mine.

It's a problem. A big problem.

I'm not used to this. To wanting someone. To wanting to be close to them. To feeling this... contentment.

It's a dangerous, unfamiliar feeling, and I don't trust it.

And I don't trust him.