“Oh.” I let out a small gasp as he slowly, deliberately pushes in. I feel myself trying to expand, but the harder I hold my legs together, the tighter it is. “I don’t know if you’ll fit this way,” I say, my heart starting to whoosh loudly in my ears.
“I appreciate the compliment,” he says, his lips coasting down my neck. “But the fun part is trying. Just breathe.”
So I do, willing myself to relax while still making it tight for us. He’s able to push in deeper, though the fact that he has to go so slowly is making him shake with tension, his neck corded, his jaw grinding together as he drives in to the hilt.
“Fuck,” he swears, hair falling over his eyes. Whatever innocent Pascal I saw this morning is gone and has been replaced by someone wild, primal, raw, and I’m trapped in his feral stare. “You feel so fucking good, Gabrielle. I am all but lost to you.” He slowly pulls back out with a groan, but his eye contact doesn’t break. “I’m not sure I want to be found.”
“I don’t either,” I tell him, and as he pushes in again, I have to close my eyes. The intimacy is too much, and it feels too good. My proverbial heart is starting to rise and fall with his words, with his look, his touch. I am losing myself to him, body and soul, and it scares me that I may never get the me I know back.
What if I belong to him forever?
Would it be so bad? To be fucked like this? To be wooed like this? To have such sweet words from a bad man? If he’s only good to me, does that make him good?
“Stop thinking,” he says roughly, and when I open my eyes, his face is inches from mine. He’s searching me with a raw intensity, determined to find something. I just don’t know what he’s looking for. “Stop thinking and start feeling. I know you feel, Gabrielle. I know you feel me.” He slides his hand over my clit, which sends sparks out along my nerves, like I’m constructed of live wires. “Feel me.”
“I feel you,” I say through a groan, my voice throaty, breathy, lost in his touch.
“Don’t stop.”
“I won’t if you won’t.”
He pistons his hips into me harder, a bit faster, the force causing my legs to come apart. His grip tightens around my wrist, and he takes his hand off my clit for a moment to slap my breasts as they bounce up and down. “Keep them together,” he grinds out. “Feel me.”
I feel nothing but him.
Every stroke of his cock as it drags along each sensitive spot inside, the feel of his hips as they slam into me, the way his hand feels around my wrist, keeping me bound and in place. I would have thought this type of sex would have triggered me in some way, but with Pascal it’s cathartic. It’s something that’s real, about bringing me pleasure, making me feel wanted, needed, desired.
Respected.
“Come on, little sprite,” he says, placing his lips on mine in a quick and messy kiss. “I want to hear you come undone.”
I moan into him, the sound becoming louder, wilder as he starts stroking me again, fingers slick and slippery against me.
I’m coming.
“Oh God!” I scream, the orgasm taking hold of me, making me feel open and new. My head goes back, my back arches, my legs fall apart as it rides through me, wave after wave. “Fuck, fuck . . . oh, Pascal . . .” I trail off, unable to keep the words from coming from my mouth.
“God, that’s so hot,” he says, and he starts driving in deeper, deeper, every muscle in his body shaking from the exertion. “I’m going to come just from you saying my name.”
And he does come, driving in so deep that I can’t breathe and I cry out, my body still throbbing around his cock as he shoots into the condom. He grunts out a string of expletives as his body finishes, and then he slows, sweat dripping off his body onto mine, his abs straining.
“Jesus,” he swears, pumping once, twice, and then nearly collapsing on me. His sweaty chest is rising and falling against my breasts, and he brushes the hair off my face, staring at me with a sated expression. “Tell me I’m yours. I need to know it. I need to feel it.”