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I look at him.

He reaches between us and drags the head of his cock through my pussy. Up through all that wet, over my swollen clit, back down. I jerk. He does it again, slower, and lets it settle right at my entrance and just stays there. That blunt pressure. I can already feel how big he is from just that, the stretch that hasn’t even started, and my heart’s trying to climb out my chest.

“Breathe,” he says.

“I am breathing!”

“You’re holding your breath.”

I let it out. He pushes in.

Slow. So slow. And it still burns. The head of him forces me open wider than anything ever has, and I suck air through my teeth and grab his arms. His biceps are like rocks. He stops. His whole body’s shaking over me, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jump.

“Fuck, Dylan.” His voice is gone rough and low. “You’re squeezing the hell out of me. You’re so hot. So fucking wet.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.” He kisses my cheek. The corner of my mouth. “It’s gonna hurt. Then it won’t.”

He pushes again. Another inch. My eyes water. It’s unreal, this deep, full burn, like he’s moving my insides out of his way, and I feel him hit something and push past it, and I cry out. He swallows it with his mouth. It’s the first time he’s kissed me. Right now. With half of him inside me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth and I can taste myself on him, salty and sweet, and he kisses me deep and slow while he keeps going, and going, and going, till his hips are flush against mine and there’s nothing left.

He stops. Holds there. Buried all the way.

We’re both breathing like we just ran up the stairs.

“There,” he says against my lips. “That’s all of me. You took all of me.”

I’m so full I can feel him in my stomach. There’s a throbbing deep inside me, and I don’t know if it’s him or me. The burn’s fading into an ache, heavy and hot, and then he rolls his hips, just a little, and the ache turns into something that makes my toes curl.

“Oh.”

“Yeah?”

“Do that again.”

He does it again. Slow and deep. His hips grind against my clit with every push. He’s watching my face like he’s studying for a test, and every time I gasp, he does it the exact same way again. My hands slide down his back. He’s sweating. All that muscle moving under my palms. All that power, held back for me.

“Faster,” I hear myself say.

“No.”

“Sasha…”

“I said slow the first time.” He pulls almost all the way out and sinks back in, and I moan. “You’re getting slow.”

It’s torture. It’s the best torture in the world. He fucks me slow and deep and steady, and it builds and builds in my belly until I’m clawing his back and begging without even knowing what I’m saying. Please. Please, Sasha. Please. He’s talking in my ear the whole time. That I’m his. That he’s keeping me. That he’s gonna fill me up and I’ma walk around tomorrow with him leaking out of me, and every time I sit down in class, I’ma feel how sore he made me and remember whose I am.

I come again. It’s different this time. Deeper. Rolling up from somewhere inside me where he’s pressing, and I clamp down on him so hard he cusses in Russian.

His rhythm breaks.

“Fuck. Fuck, Dylan, I’m gonna…”

“Do it.” That don’t even sound like me. “Do it inside me.”

He groans like I shot him. He shoves in deep, all the way, his hand cradling the back of my head, and holds there. I feel him jerk inside me. Once. Twice. Then the heat of it, him filling me up, this warm flood spreading so deep inside me I gasp.

He doesn’t pull out. He stays there, pressed into me, breathing hard against my neck, his hips still twitching. When he finally lifts his head, he looks down at me like a man who just took something and has no plans to ever give it back.