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“Sorry.” I pull back and intertwine our fingers. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you.”
“I’ve never… I’ve only done this once.” Her breathing stops, as if she’s bracing for my reaction.
Does she think I’ll reject her? That’s fucking stupid. The thought of her with another guy infuriates me, but nothing more.
“I hate that someone else got you before me, but I guarantee I’ll reach places he never did and make every inch of you mine.”
She searches my eyes, and I let her see the truth in each syllable.
“I-I’m sure you’d prefer a girl with more experience.”
“Nope. No, I wouldn’t. Stop trying to talk me out of being with you. I want you. You’re gorgeous. You’re sweet. You’re real.” She wants me too. I heard her little whimpers as we kissed and felt her body trembling beneath mine. Her fingers are still in my hair, as if she doesn’t want to let go. “But you need to know one thing. I don’t plan on this being casual. If we have sex, I’m going to expect you to be mine. Only mine.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “And what about you?”
I can’t stop myself from kissing her. “It goes both ways.”
She returns my kiss, our tongues quickly intertwining and picking up where we left off. She makes those delicious whimpers, and I swallow them up.
Then, a thought hits me. “You said you had sex once, not with one person. Once?”
She swallows hard and nods. A wary expression fills her eyes.
I hesitate to ask, but I need to know. “You didn’t enjoy it?”
Her face flushes from more than our kiss. “It was my first time. That means nothing.”
“Not for you, no. Did he hurt you?”
“Ithurt, and then it was over.” Her stiff shoulders rise in that fake, half-ass shrug.
A familiar haunting darkness churns in my gut. “I’m going to need his name.”
“What?”
“Give. Me. His. Name.”
“What? Why?”
“Because he hurt you.”
“Maybe not on purpose. Are you always this intense?”
There’s a defensive edge to her tone I don’t follow. The world is cruel—menare cruel. She’s perfect.
I can’t understand her embarrassment—it’s an emotion I rarely experience—but I’m not about to fuck this up and mock her innocence again.
“The tattoo is for my mother. She was killed when I was fourteen, and you saw my father. He’s an asshole. There’s nothing you should be ashamed of, not with me.”
With a sigh, the tension leaves her body, that shy gaze staring back at me.
“Now, can I show you something?”
She raises her chin. “What?”
I grin. “Don’t worry. It’s not my dick.”
“What are you going to do?” She’s suspicious, but a hint of a smile plays on her lips, her walls slowly crumbling.