Page 97 of Dirty Game
He walks me to the bed and bends me over the edge gently. I hear a drawer open and close. Then his hands are on me, spreading me, and I understand what he's asking for. What I'm offering.
"This might hurt," he warns, his fingers gentle as they begin preparing me with something slick and cool. "We go slow. You say stop, we stop."
"I know." But my voice shakes because this is territory I never imagined exploring, a vulnerability I never thought I'd offer anyone.
He takes his time, working me open carefully, and I focus on breathing, on relaxing, on trusting him. One finger, then two, patient and thorough. The intrusion is strange, not painful exactly, but overwhelming in its intimacy.
"Talk to me," he says. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm terrified," I admit, my voice muffled by the sheets. "Not of pain but of being disposable after. Once you've had me in every way, will I still matter? Or will I just be conquered territory?"
He stops preparing me, turns me over so I'm on my back, making me look at him. His eyes are fierce, almost angry.
"You mattered before I touched you," he says, each word deliberate. "You mattered when you were just a payment foryour uncle's debt. You mattered when you found that first discrepancy in my books. You'll matter after I'm dead, because loving you has changed me in ways that can't be undone."
"Promise?"
"I swear on my son's life. On my mother's grave. On every scar on my body. You will always matter."
He kisses me then, deep and desperate, and I taste truth in it. When he turns me back over, I'm ready. Not just physically, but emotionally, spiritually, every part of me ready to give him this last piece of myself.
He positions himself carefully, one hand on my hip, the other rubbing soothing circles on my lower back. "Breathe. Push back against me when you're ready."
The first press of him is impossible. Too big, too much, my body trying to reject the intrusion. But he's patient, working himself in millimeter by millimeter, letting me adjust. The pain is there, but minimal compared to what I expected—a stretching burn that walks the line between discomfort and something else.
"You're doing so well," he murmurs, his voice strained with the effort of going slow. "So perfect. Taking me so well."
When he's fully inside me, we both pause, breathing hard. The fullness is overwhelming, feeling him in places I didn't know I could feel. Then he starts to move, shallow thrusts that make sparks shoot up my spine.
His hand comes around to find my clit, circling it with perfect pressure, and suddenly the discomfort transforms into something else entirely. Pleasure, dark and deep and unlike anything I've experienced before.
That's when I start crying.
He freezes immediately, panicked. "I'm hurting you. We should stop?—"
"No!" I reach back, grab his hip to keep him in place. "No, you're not hurting me. You're healing me. I didn't know it could be healing."
"Baby—"
"Every other touch I've known has been about taking—my uncle taking my dignity, my brother taking my safety, buyers taking my worth. But you... you give even when you take. You make me feel whole even when you're breaking me apart. Please don't stop. Please."
He moves again, slower now, reverent.
We find a rhythm that feels like prayer, like war, like peace. Like we're meant to fit together exactly like this, two broken pieces making something complete. His fingers work my clit as he moves inside me, and I'm climbing toward something vast and terrifying.
"Mine," he growls, his control finally slipping as his thrusts become harder, deeper.
"Yours," I gasp, pushing back to meet him. "Always yours. Only yours."
When I fall apart, it's with his name on my lips and tears on my cheeks.
The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, so complete it feels like rebirth.
He follows me over, his arms coming around me, holding me through the waves that seem endless.
I understand now why wars are fought over this—this connection, this claiming, this complete surrender that somehow feels like victory.
After, he cleans us both with infinite gentleness, warm washcloths and soft touches, murmuring praise against my skin.
