Page 75 of Breaking Isolde

He peels the sweatshirt over my head, slow, and pauses at the sight of my bandaged arms, the gauze on my shoulder. His mouth tightens, but he keeps going.

He kneels, giving me space to make sure this is what I want. His chest is a mess of old wounds, some faded, some fresh. Leaning forward, I trace them with my fingers, and he closes his eyes, breathing hard.

He slides his hands up my thighs. He kisses each mark, scar, scrape, one by one, like he’s trying to erase the pain.

He moves slow, waiting for me to tell him no.

I don’t. Instead, I pull my underwear to the side and watch as he pops his dick out the hole in front of his boxers. Grabbing him, I pull him towards me and he’s careful not to jostle me too much as he moves forward, settling between my legs.

He lines his cock up with my entrance, but doesn’t push in. He waits, eyes locked on mine.

“Is this okay?” he whispers.

I nod, and that’s all it takes.

He enters me, slow, careful, never breaking eye contact. He fills me, but doesn’t move, letting my body adjust around him.

He brushes the hair from my face, kisses my eyelids, my cheeks, my jaw.

He fucks me like I’m something precious, and I hate him for it.

But I don’t stop.

He moves inside me, each thrust slow, deliberate, the opposite of last night. There’s no pain, just a slow build of pleasure, a heat that burns away the ache.

He wraps his arms around me, holding me close. His chest is slick with sweat, his mouth everywhere at once.

I arch up, biting his shoulder, and he groans, the sound raw.

He picks up the pace, but never too much. He reads my body, matching every gasp, every moan, every whimper.

He quietly says my name, over and over, like it’s a chant he needs to keep me here, to tie me to him.

He comes first, shuddering, then buries his face in my neck. He stays there, breathing hard, refusing to let go. His fingers move low, circling my clit as he works me, his cock half hard inside me as I come around it, the orgasm a gentle wave rather than an all consuming blaze.

It feels nice. Being fucked like a lover rather than a savage beast.

I run my hands through his hair, fingers twisting in the strands.

We stay like that, tangled, for what feels like hours.

When he finally rolls off, he keeps one hand on my stomach, thumb stroking the skin just above my hip.

He says nothing.

Neither do I.

But the silence is different now.

It’s full.

He falls asleep first, face buried in my hair, his hand still wrapped around my waist.

I watch him breathe, counting each rise and fall of his chest.

It hurts me when I realize that I don’t want to run.

I want to stay.