Page 17 of Jordan

“Take this off,” he says next, tugging on his undershirt.

I pull it out of his slacks. I’ve never seen Enzo without his shirt on, and I’ll shamelessly admit I am looking forward to it. He’s always dressed nicely, always in all black or dark grey. I think I saw him in maroon once, actually.

Sliding my hands beneath his shirt, I run them up his abs, effectively pulling the shirt up. When I reach his chest, I move my hands to the sides, feeling his ribs beneath my palms. He raises his arms, and I have to stand on my toes to get it over his head.

His clothes fit so well you can tell he’s firm and fit, but I was not prepared for the feast my eyes get when his shirt is discarded on the floor. Tattoos. All over his chest, his stomach, his shoulders, his arms. But hidden among the artwork are scars.

The long lines look like slices, and the small circular holes could be burns or puncture holes. They blend with the Italian words, the angel wings, skulls, roses, and many other pieces that cover his body. I had no idea this man had so many tattoos. Now that I recall, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without a long-sleeved shirt.

But the scars… There are so many.

“What—” I yelp when there’s a sharp pain in my nipple.

“If you do not follow the rules, you will be punished,” he reminds me, letting go of my nipple.

My bottom lip wobbles, tears stinging my eyes. But I nod in response.

I’m doing this so he doesn’t rat me out, I remind myself while hating how much I didn’t hate his punishment.

Even if I’m pretending I don’t know him for the sake of this situation, deep down, I know I can trust him because of who he is. He’d never hurt me. But this? There is something going on here. Something more than me trusting a family friend.

I pull my gaze from the scars and tattoos and take in the rest of his body. A delicious set of abs runs up to a sculpted chest, wide shoulders, strong biceps. Thick forearms and large hands.

He moves around me. “Come here.”

I carefully turn and find him sitting in the chair I was just in. He crooks his finger at me again, and I move to him. He undoes the buckle of his belt. My eyes stay on his. His stay on mine. He carefully and meticulously gets his pants undone, pushes his underwear down, and frees his dick.

Even without me directly looking at it, I see how big it is. Much bigger than what I’m used to, and without having had sex in a while, I know it’s going to hurt.

But I crave it. I crave the stretch and the burn his cock will give me.

It’s why I came here.

For an experience like no other.

Enzo brushes his fingers up my thigh. My eyes fall closed. His touch burns a trail up my side, under my breast, down my stomach and around my belly button. His hand is on my wrist and he’s guiding me toward him, taking my hand and wrapping it around his erection. It’s so warm, thick, and hard. Like steel draped in velvet.

“What’s your favorite position?” he asks.

I shake out of whatever trance I’m in, and his face comes back into focus.

“I-I don’t know.”

He guides my hand up and down his shaft at nothing more than a teasing pace. I’m growing wet over just touching him. As if I wasn’t wet enough already.

“Which have you tried?”

“M-missionary,” I stutter out.

“And?”

“Th-that’s it.”

Zach was boring. I was the one who always pushed him to have sex, and when we did, it wasn’t great. I assumed it was because I was inexperienced and didn’t know better. The first time was awful, which I knew would happen. I hadn’t expected it to hurt for so long though. It wasn’t until the fifth or sixth time that I didn’t feel like crying. But even after, it never felt good. Not the way people made it seem it should be.

“I’m sorry Zachary wasn’t man enough to satisfy you,” is Enzo’s response, which has my pussy clenching. But also a bit of emotion clogging my throat. “You know what my favorite position is?”

I shake my head, swallowing thickly.

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