“I don’t care how relaxed I get, there’s no fucking way that won’t hurt.” My stomach flip-flops and I have to battle not to let the hysterical laughter trapped in my chest burst forth. Because I’m realizing that maybe losing your virginity to a dick that big isn’t the greatest experience.
Not so perfect, after all.
His nose nudges mine until I meet his gaze. His eyes are hooded, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “You’re not like those other girls, Adams. You’re strong. Resilient. Smart. Bossy.” He distracts me with a slow, wet kiss, and something just... gives, his erection pushing just barely past the resistance.
I gasp and dig my fingers into his back, toes curling.
“You can handle all my bullshit,” he continues, “and if you can handle that, you can handle anything.”
He finishes his thought with another deep kiss, and pushes the rest of the way in. He part groans, part growls, burying his face into my neck as he stretches me out, filling me up.
It does hurt.
But I think, later, I probably won’t remember that part. What I’ll remember is the shift of his back muscles as he waits, seated inside of me, for me to adjust. I’ll remember the wash of his breath against my mouth when he pants at the feeling of being inside me. Mostly, I’ll remember the look on his face—the pucker in his brow, the tick in his jaw—and how the look in his eyes was something lost and completely undone. I’ll remember how it felt to know that it was because of me.
I’ll remember that there’s power here. That there’s triumph here.
I try to relax as he starts to move, gently pulling back out before pushing in again. We watch each other as he rocks into me, testing, careful, and it’s not the feral lust from the times before—it’s a slow-building heat. Each time we meet, I feel my anxiety unwind, my belly loosening, my desire building. It isn’t long before I start raising my hips to meet his, tentatively at first, and then spurred on by the ragged sound he makes in the back of his throat.
Soon I match him thrust for thrust, all senses lost about what I’m doing, who I’m doing it with and what kind of hell I’ll have to pay when it’s over. I follow the dance of our bodies—and it is a dance. I can’t even remember why I was so nervous. It feels so natural now to lock my ankles around his waist, just blind instinct to hook a hand around his shoulder and hold on as he plunges into me, the sweet friction and new, full feeling taking my breath away with each pass.
I can’t help but watch Hamilton over me, in me. His jaw gets tighter and sharper, eyes falling closed, shoulders eclipsing me like the sun. He’s beautiful—consumed—a side of him I’ve never seen before.
His control starts slipping gradually, driven by something primal and animalistic, his movements growing erratic, relentless. I can see his hand in my periphery, curled into a fist in my bedsheets, and the sounds he makes—these breathy grunts that sound like they’re being forced through his clenched teeth—are doing things to me. I lose myself to the sounds, the sensations twisting deep in my own core. It’s easy to lose myself in the rhythm of our bodies, in the closeness, in the bitter energy that fuels us. I come in a hot burst of white behind my eyelids, heels digging deep into his back, pushing him closer as I grind up into him. He hisses a sharp, “Fuck,” and slams into me, his massive frame shuddering with his own release, his skin hot, his cock pulsing inside of me.
Sheer exhaustion—physical and emotional—crashes over me as my legs slide limply from his waist. Hamilton rests there, on top of me, for a suspended moment, forehead resting against mine, face strangely serene. My mind is too numb to think of what’d just happened. Of the consequences…
Jesus Christ.
I jerk awake a few moments later, sharp clarity coming into focus.
What had I done?
I thought the kiss was a betrayal, but this… how do I explain this? How do I justify it? Hell, I’d gone after him! I’d admitted that I wanted him!
Hamilton shifts, the look of contentment gone, face going shuttered, eyes darkening. I recognize the expression instantly.
Resentment.
“I should go,” he says, untangling himself from me. I look away as he cleans up, wrapping my blanket around me like a shield. He starts, “That was—”
“A mistake.”
He nods in agreement, plucking his shorts and jeans from the floor. He tugs them on quickly, then his shirt. As skilled as he was getting my clothes off, he also seems practiced in making a... what did he call it? ‘Hasty post-coital exit’?
He crams his feet into his shoes and heads to the door, stopping to say, “If you—"
I cut him off. “You don’t need to threaten me. I won’t tell anyone.”
His eyes hold mine, but there’s more exhaustion than threat in them. “Good. Trust me, I won’t either.”
The door opens and shuts, and then I’m alone. There’s no risk of him returning nor of me going after him. I burrow under the covers, caught in the mixed emotions of everything that just happened. I feel both full and empty—both relieved and hurt.
I shouldn’t expect anything better after tangling with Hamilton Bates.
By Sunday morning, I know for sure that there’s no way I’m facing my family. My paranoia reaches a fever pitch and I call my mom to tell her that I don’t feel great, that I’m really sorry I won’t be home, that I’m going to spend the day resting.
“Do you need some soup?” she asks, concerned. “I can bring some over. I know you like Pho from the 24-hour place.”