Page 16 of Twisted Pact

The pain is immediate. Not unbearable, but enough to make my eyes water. I dig my nails into his shoulders and try to keep my face neutral. Try not to give away what this means.

He pauses. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” The word comes out strangled.

“You’re tight as hell.” He groans and adds, “It feels fucking incredible.”

I force myself to nod. To act like this is normal. Like I’ve done this a hundred times before.

He pushes forward again. Slower this time. Giving me time to adjust to each inch until he’s fully seated inside me.

Full.That’s the only word my brain can come up with. So full that I can’t tell where I end, and he begins.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel amazing.”

He starts moving. Small motions at first. Testing what works. The pain gradually fades, and in its place comes something else. Something that builds with each careful thrust until I hear myself begging, “Don’t stop.”

“Good girl,” he says, voice low and rough. “I knew you could take all of me.”

He increases his pace, and his hips roll against mine in a rhythm that has me gasping. One hand latches onto my hip while the other braces beside my head.

I watch his face as he moves inside me. Watch pleasure play across his features. He’s focused entirely on the sensations, on chasing his release.

His hand finds my breast, and his thumb circles my nipple. I suck in a gasp as they pebble under his touch, and my body starts to respond. To understand the rhythm and move with him instead of against him.

“That’s it,” he says. “Just like that.”

He slides his hand between us and finds my clit, where he circles and flicks, and suddenly, the discomfort doesn’t matter anymore because pleasure is building low in my belly with each thrust.

I come apart underneath him, biting his shoulder to muffle the sounds trying to escape. He follows seconds later, grunting my name as he buries himself deep.

We stay like that for several heartbeats. Connected. Breathing hard. When he turns back to me, something in his eyes makes panic settle in my stomach.

“Stay.” It’s not a request.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because this was one night. That was the deal.”

“Fuck the deal.”

“No.” I sit up and look around for my clothes. “I need to go.”

He watches me dress without trying to stop me. Just sits there naked on the bed like an ancient god who’s amused by mortal foolishness.

When I’m clothed, I head for the door.

He doesn’t follow. Doesn’t try to convince me to stay. Just lets me leave with my dignity barely intact.

The drive home passes in a blur of streetlights and regret. My body aches in ways I’ve never experienced.

Evidence of what we did. What I let him do.

What I wanted him to do.

I park in the garage and slip inside through the kitchen entrance. The house is dark and silent. Papa must already be asleep.