Page 18 of Rescuing the Writer

The words were like gasoline, setting my blood ablaze. “I’m ready.”

“No.” His tone left no room for debate. “I’ll tell you when you’re ready, and this ain’t it.”

Was it weird that I loved that this man, who was gentle in almost every other way, got bossy in bed? “Okay.”

“Let me take care of you, darling. Let me make your first time the best experience possible.”

When he put it like that, how could I protest?

When he was satisfied I was loose enough, he rolled on a condom with far more ease than I had. He met my eyes. “You still okay with this?”

I loved him for asking. “Yes. Very much okay.”

The moment stretched between us, elastic and charged, as he positioned himself, the tip of his cock pressing against my entrance. My breath hitched, a sound that echoed through the quiet room, and my muscles tensed. I felt both anticipation and a little nervousness, but Melbourne would take care of me.

“I’ll go slow, I promise.” His voice had a soothing timbre. “And breathe, Waylon…just breathe.”

He pushed in, and the pressure was almost unbearable, but then I bore down like I’d read in my research, and he popped past that first muscle barrier. There was a tightness, a resistance, but also a yielding—a paradox that seemed to define the act itself.

Melbourne held still. “Good?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Keep breathing, darling, and try to relax. Your body will adapt.”

I did just that. As he worked his way inside me with thrusts that went a little deeper every time, the stinging and burning morphed into something else, a delicate friction that whispered a promise of more.

“You’re doing great,” Melbourne said.

“H-how does it feel? Inside me?”

“Perfect.” Melbourne’s half-lidded eyes locked onto mine. “Absolutely fucking perfect.”

With each measured thrust, I became acutely aware of every sensation—the slide of skin on skin, the rhythmic creak of the bed, the subtle friction of Melbourne’s body against mine. It was as if all my senses were heightened, as if I was somehow tuned to his frequency. This was a dance we were both learning, steps choreographed by instinct and desire.

Melbourne’s fingers dug into my hips, urging me to cant them even more, to give him full access. I responded, spreading myself wide open for him. The last bit of discomfort vaporized, and pleasure began to build inside me. He set a pace with deep thrusts that rocked through my body, and I moved with him in a rhythm born of instinct and the thrumming pulse of my heart. Our bodies moved with a shared urgency, a hunger I’d never felt. Like a raw need clawing at my insides.

“Mel…” It was a plea, a prayer, a curse. He filled me completely, each stroke sending me higher. His name became my mantra, a lifeline grounding me as the pleasure grew, danced, and spiraled.

There was nothing but the sound of our mingled moans and the rhythmic creaking of the bed anchoring us to reality. With each thrust, the air between us became electrified, charging the room with an intensity that felt wild and incredibly intimate. Our bodies melded together in a seamless dance of passion and need, his frame fitting against mine as if we were two perfectly aligned pieces of a puzzle. He achieved the synchronization I had envisioned but hadn’t been able to pull off because of my inexperience, making me respond to his every move.

He led and I followed.

He pushed and I yielded.

He claimed and I gave.

My world narrowed to where he filled me time and again—the heat, the pressure, the relentless buildup of pleasure. It was a wildfire, uncontrolled and all-consuming, and in its wake, there was nothing left to do but surrender to the flames.

“Look at me,” he rasped, and I obeyed, his gaze anchoring me. In the depths of those brown eyes, I found the courage to let go, to surrender to him and the torrent of sensation. I wrapped my hand around myself and fisted the tip tightly the way I loved. One, two, three jacks and my orgasm barreled through me, taking me wholly by surprise. I let out the most sinful moan as I came for the second time that day, my balls clenching and unclenching to release their load.

“Waylon…” His voice broke, and it was the most beautiful fracture, a splintering that invited me to fill the spaces within him.

Now it was my turn to lead him. “Let go.”

His body seized, his muscles spasming as he rocked himself inside me in fierce, fast thrusts. And now I understood what he had meant, that watching someone else come because of you could be a gift in itself. It was. A gift I would always remember.

He shook as he carefully pulled out, and his movements were unusually clumsy as he tied the condom and threw it on the floor. Instinctively, I held my arms open, and he cuddled close, putting his head on my shoulder and wrapping himself around me like a vine. Not that I was complaining.

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