Make Me Bad(65)

I sit up a little, watching him. Suddenly, I feel very naked with him halfway across the room.

I feel silly and small and what does he think of this ridiculous apartment? What does he think of me? I hate that I’m even thinking about that right now, but this is all new to me. Not to him, though—he’s been here before. Other women have come before me, and maybe this moment doesn’t meet his expectations. Maybe I don’t meet his expectations.

Then he turns back and he halts as his gaze catches on me. I’m completely naked, lying there, waiting for him. His eyes light a fire across my skin, he starts between my thighs, then he moves up across my taught stomach and my full, heavy breasts. When our gazes lock, he looks wild, feral. I might not know everything about this, but I know one thing: the way Ben’s looking at me, it’s like there’s no other woman on earth. This place might as well be a penthouse suite. I might as well be lying on a bed of silk and rose petals instead of scratchy black cotton.

He comes back to the futon, condom in hand, and reaches down to arrange me so there’s more room for him to wedge his knee between my thigh and the cushion.

Foil tears and I watch, attention riveted, as he unrolls the condom onto himself, pumping up and down twice before he positions himself on top of me.

“Wrap your legs around my hips,” he says, grabbing the backs of my thighs. When I comply, he nods. “Yeah, like that.”

He fists his length and brushes it up and down between my thighs, coaxing me, drawing this out just a little bit more. When my nails bite into his skin, he starts to push himself inside slowly. His upper body falls over me, blanketing me from the world.

His lips hit my cheek and he whispers, “Just try to relax.”

I take a deep breath and he pushes in another inch. It burns in such a unique way, a way that seems unbearable. My first instinct is to tell him to stop. I fist my hands and push against him. No, you can’t keep going. It doesn’t feel right. He slides in another inch. The pain intensifies and I must make a sound because Ben kisses me hard on the mouth, assuring me, promising me, soothing me. He continues until he’s all the way in and the fire is eating me up from the inside out. Instead of shoving him away, my hands are on his back now, gripping him and ensuring he stays right where he is. I’m scared of movement, of the potential for more pain.

“Breathe,” he begs, lifting up just enough to trace his hand along my body. He finds my rose tattoo and his palm flattens over it reverently.

I move my hand to cover his and I squeeze, hard. His eyes lock with mine and an invisible string knots us together. Right now, with him buried deep inside me, he can see straight into me, and maybe, for once, I can see straight into him too.

Emotions overwhelm me and I lift my head to kiss him, hoping I can keep him from noticing. His hand moves from my tattoo, dragging down my stomach, inciting lust in its wake. There’s a point at which the pain starts to slink away, beaten back by the promise of pleasure. My jaw slowly unclenches and my legs start to ease apart. His thumb brushes between my thighs and I clench around him. It’s like my body knows just what to do. His lips move over mine and his kisses turn demanding and hot. His reassuring touch is gone. Now, he’s pouring fire over me and stoking the flames I thought the pain had doused.

He drags himself out a little and then thrusts back in. The sensation is otherworldly, and what I think starts out as pretty damn good turns into something extraordinary.

I moan and then demand he continue.

“Like that. Yes.”

He pulls out a little more and then pushes back, rocking his hips back and forth. His sinful smile is back and a lock of brown hair falls over his forehead. I brush it back in place, but it’s futile. He’s moving too much now, thrusting and rolling his hips against me. His pace is impossible to match, so I let him have his way with me. Oh yes, don’t mind me. I’m little more than a limp body and I’m truly sorry about not doing my part, except not really, because holy hell he’s good.

His hand covers my hip, keeping me right where he wants me, and he looks down at where our bodies meet, thrust for thrust. My back arches and his finger finds the sweet spot, the spot where, when he makes contact with it, I’m prepared to sacrifice my life if only he would continue.

Like that.

The barest brush.

The constant building need.

I know what’s coming. The chain reaction has already gripped hold of my body.

“I’m going to—”

There are tingles in my toes.

There’s no chance for me to finish my sentence as his pace picks up.

His ab muscles ripple as he thrusts in and out of me. I want to hold off as long as possible, to grip hold of this feeling that seems so beautiful and fleeting. I’ll only have this moment once in my life and if it passes me by, then what?

Then…I’ll…

I clench tightly as I cry out, body racked with waves of pleasure.

I didn’t realize how starkly different it would feel to orgasm with him inside me. There should almost be a new word for it. It’s an experience unto itself. He fills me up and I clench, and that perfect sensation is what I’m made for.

There’s no space between us. Our chests are flush. Our mouths are sealed together. He’s grinding inside me so deep, milking, dragging, clawing out every last bit of pleasure I have to give, and when I’m drained, when there’s no way I’ll be able to move or breathe or continue living, his body shakes and a low rumble releases from his chest. It sounds like I’ve split him right down the middle. He jerks into me, filling me, and now our roles are reversed.