Page 61 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

And I get so horny at the feel of it after such a long time, so lusty and wanton that I moan even louder.

I move even faster because I missed it. I missed the feel of it.

I took it for granted. When I’d feel it before.

At my back and in the crack of my ass. There were times when I felt it rubbing against my tummy, hitting my clit and I’d be so ashamed of how good it made me feel.

So ashamed that one stroke and I’d be coming like the slut I am.

Not anymore though. If I’m a slut for his dick, then so be it.

If I’m a whore, I’m his whore. And he must be thinking the same thing because as soon as he’s settled between my open thighs, he grabs my ass and helps me move.

Actually, help isn’t the right word at all.

He’s not helping me, he’s moving me up and down himself.

Through the sheer strength in his arms, he’s practically shoving me up and pulling me down against his dick. As if jacking himself off with my body.

At this, I come.

I have to. The thought of him using my body to give himself relief turns me on so much that I can’t help but climax, arching my spine and throwing my head back, moaning out his name.

Clutching his shoulders to pull him even closer, digging my heels into his thighs so I don’t get washed away with the wave of my orgasm.

I feel his mouth open and panting on the side of my neck, just under my ears. “I can’t… I don’t know how to…”

I shake my head, tightening my limbs around him, my eyes blinking. “Don’t stop.”

His chest pushes into mine. “But if I don’t then?—”

“I know,” I whisper back. “I want it.”

At this, he moves away from me a little bit and lets my ass go. He frames my face with his rough hands as he rasps, “Look at me.”

Panting, I obey. I blink my eyes open and try to focus on him. When he’s satisfied, he squeezes my cheeks and rumbles, “You know what you’re asking me to do?”

I dig my nails in his shoulders and lick my lips, all swollen and kissed. “Yes.”

“You’re asking me to fuck you,” he says, looking down at them for a second, as if he doesn’t believe me, or rather, he doesn’t think I know what I’m saying.

My pussy clenches and I jerk. “Y-yes.”

His chest moves with a harsh breath. “Up against a tree.”

I move my hands away from his shoulders and put them on his face, all hard and flushed. So beautiful. “Yes.”

He licks his lips too, as if in anticipation. “When this is your?—”

“Yes,” I tell him, noticing his lips are just as swollen and stung-looking as mine.

“Because I know you’ll make it g-good. I know you’ll make it your mission to make my first time more than good.

” I place a soft kiss on his lips, soft and barely there as I keep whispering, “Because I trust you, Shepard. I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone. ”

Because I love you.

And when all he does is stare at me, his hands still on my face, his chest frozen too, only his eyes moving back and forth between mine, I go to say something, but he doesn’t let me.

He swallows down my words because he can’t bear to hear them, can’t bear to see the absolute trust shining in my eyes or because he doesn’t need any more convincing; I suspect it’s the former. And then he proceeds to make it good.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like he’s doing when he starts moving for me.

No, not moving. Dancing .

God, he’s dancing for me, isn’t he? With his hips, going up and down, rubbing his dick against my core.

He’s never done that before. In all this time, I’ve always been the one to move.

I’ve been the one to dance, either by myself or because he makes me.

But this is the first time he’s moving for me .

He’s writhing against my body, twisting his pelvis, hunching his abs, moving them like a wave, like a male stripper would.

And it’s so magnificent and phenomenal and practiced,so unexpected that he’d take care of me this way that I jerk and twist in his hold, coming and coming.

And he doesn’t stop with wringing only one out.

He keeps moving, grinding, writhing for me, all the while kissing me up top, eating my mouth and drinking from my tongue and like a puppet, his slut and his whore, I keep obeying the commands of his body and keep climaxing until I lose all track of time.

I lose all sense of the space, of myself.

My whole world is him and his body, the way he moves, the way he kisses me. The way his hands are all frantic on my face and my hair. The way his chest is dragging against mine, making my breasts feel heavy and my nipples so hard.

The next time I’m conscious enough to feel something is his hasty movements down below.

His hands, now moved away from my face and my hair, pushing my dress up my thighs; his fingers brushing against my panty-covered pussy, all hot and impatient and yet somehow completely patient.

He shoves my useless panties aside and I feel the night air brushing against my heated core, followed by the jangling of his belt and the rending of his zipper opening.

I get a moment to feel the hard, heated length of his cock, grazing my fluttering pussy before it’s going inside me. And no, it doesn’t really go inside me. He shoves it in. In one, single stroke. In one single stroke , he rips through my virginity and is seated all the way in.

I know why he did it that way. I do. I may not have known or remembered the kissing part, but this I know.

It’s like ripping off a band-aid. My friends told me.

Tempest and Meadow, even Callie and Echo, and the rest of my St. Mary’s friends.

They said it’s easier that way. If they break you in hard and fast. But I think they were wrong.

I think I’d like to hunt them down and shake them.

I’d like to tell them that no, it’s not. It's not easier this way.

You know what it is though? It’s painful.

It’s so fucking painful that my body jerks and my back bows.

My head gets thrown back and the moan that comes out of my mouth, that rips out of my lungs like he just ripped through my virginity, sounds like something that comes out of a wounded animal.

Because that’s what I am, aren’t I? I am wounded .

My pussy is all bruised and broken and oh my God, bleeding .

I can feel the blood ooze out. I can feel it.

I can feel it running down my thighs. Just like I can feel him.

Inside of me.

So big and thick. Throbbing and threatening and oh my God, why didn’t he tell me?

Why didn’t he say in clear, exact words that Jupiter, if I take your virginity up against a tree or anywhere really, you will die .

If he had told me that I never would’ve said yes.

I never ever would’ve said yes to this… torture and I want to stop.

I want to stop, stop, stop . I want him to get out. Out, out, out.

Until.

Until he shushes me. Until I feel his chest shudder against mine and realize he’s shaking.

His big, hard body is shivering. Not the way it did before but in a different way.

In a way where it makes me think he’s in pain.

He’s hurting. Probably because he wants to move.

Isn’t that what guys always want? They want to move inside a tight, hot virgin pussy, but he isn’t.

Instead, he’s hugging me.

Or more like, making me burrow inside his body.

He’s got his big hand on the back of my head and his other arm around my waist. And he’s pressing my forehead into the side of his neck where I can feel his pulse going and going.

I feel his skin sweating. And then I hear him say in my ear, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.”

I clutch his shoulders then, my breaths trembling, my pussy all stretched out and hurting. “I… It’s… I don’t…”

“It’s my fault,” he says, squeezing his arm around me. “It’s me.”

“You’re so… b-big.”

At my words, his dick pulses inside of me and I moan with pain again. With the stretch. And he presses my forehead into his neck even more. “It hurts, yeah?”

A tear streams down my cheek. “Yes. I don’t think I can?—”

“You can,” he cuts me off. Before I can protest, he tilts his face to the side, his stubble scraping against my cheek and his mouth brushing against my ear as he says, “Because you were made for me.”

My heart skips a beat. “I don’t think that’s?—"

“Shh, it’s okay. Just breathe with me, okay? Can you do that?”

“Y-yes.”

“Okay, okay, good,” he says. “Together.”

And then he proceeds to coach me through it. One breath in, one breath out, and repeat. In and out, in and out, our chests moving in tandem to each other, the air from his lungs mingling with the air in mine. Slowly but steadily.

Which is when I realize I was too quick to judge.

All my friends were right. This is the way to do it.

Because I don’t think anyone has taken such care with me before.

Such slow and tender, intense care where we breathe as one, where we exist as one.

Where nothing exists but him and me and our bodies and our breaths.

Where all I can feel is his heat, his scent.

Him inside of me.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers, still breathing with me.

“I-I am?”

“Yeah,” he grates, kissing my ear, stroking my scalp. “You’re being so good for me. So fucking good.”

My pussy pulses again, and it’s painful but it doesn’t seem so bad now. “You t-think so?”

“ Fuck yeah,” he says in the same tone, his fingers starting to work his magic, his dick throbbing again. “You’re being so brave right now.”

Another tear streams down my face as my belly flutters at his praise. “I don’t feel b-brave.”

“You are, baby. You’re being so fucking brave, taking me like this. Letting me inside you. And you know what else?”

“What?”

“You feel so fucking good too,” he says with a moan.

“I do?”

“Uh-huh,” he continues. “You’re making it throb so fucking hard.”

“W-what?”