Good

Good
His hands began to move. They mapped my body as if for the first time, sliding under my sweater, his palms warm and slightly rough against my ribs. He broke the kiss to pull the fabric over my head, his eyes dark and intent on mine.

“You are so beautiful,” he said, the words not smooth or practiced, but halting, as if he were realizing it for the first time. “It used to make me angry, how beautiful you are. How much I wanted you. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I… I corrupted it.”

“Stephano…”

“Shhh,” he whispered, lowering his head to kiss the hollow of my throat. “Let me try to undo it. Let me try.”

His mouth was a brand of heat, moving lower, following the path his hands had taken. He took his time, learning the landscape of me with lips and tongue and whispered, broken words. So soft here. This scar… how did you get this? I remember this mole. It was an agonizing, exquisite unraveling. Every touch was a apology, every kiss a promise. He worshipped where he had once only taken.

When there were no more barriers between us, when we were skin to skin in the moonlit dark, he paused, looking down at me. His body was a taut line of restraint, trembling with it. Sweat beaded on his brow.

“Look at me,” he breathed.

I opened my eyes, ones I hadn’t realized I’d closed.

“I need to see you,” he said, his voice thick. “I need to know you’re here. With me.”

“I’m here.” The words were a mere breath.

He entered me then, not with a conquering thrust, but with a slow, devastating slide. It was one hell of a joining. It was a filling so complete it felt less like possession and more like… homecoming. A groan was torn from his chest, deep and ragged. He buried his face in my neck. “God, Camilla…”

The feeling was overwhelming. The intimate fullness of him, the heat, the rightness of it. This was not the frantic friction I was used to. This was a deep, rolling wave, building from our very cores.

He began to move, a slow, rocking rhythm that was pure feeling. His forehead came to rest against mine, our breaths mingling, our eyes locked. In the dark, his gaze was unguarded and he was so very vulnerable.

“Is this…” he panted between slow, deep strokes, “is this what it was supposed to feel like?”

A sob caught in my chest. “I don’t know. I think so.”

“It’s…” He lost the words, shaking his head, his hips pressing deeper, drawing a gasp from me. “It’s everything. You’re everything.”

The feel of him, that slow, impossible slide, punched the air from my lungs. I

A broken sound escaped his throat. "Jesus, Camilla." His forehead dropped to mine, our noses brushing. "Jesus Christ."

He didn't move. He just stayed there, locked inside me, his breath coming in ragged, hot bursts against my lips. I could feel him throbbing. I could feel the slick, hot clench of my own body around him, adjusting, accepting.

"Look at me," he whispered, a raw plea. "Please, baby, look at me."

I forced my eyes open. His face was a mask of agony and awe, his pupils so blown they consumed the grey. There was a sheen of sweat already on his brow.

"You feel..." He swallowed hard, his hips giving the tiniest, involuntary rock. "You feel like heaven. You feel like you were made for me."

He started to move then, withdrawing with a slow, aching drag that made us both gasp, then pushing back in with that same devastating, complete press. 

"Tell me," he breathed, his eyes searching mine. "Tell me what you feel."

"I feel you," I gasped, arching as he hit a spot that sent sparks up my spine. "All of you."

"Where?" he demanded, his voice low and thick. "Show me. Tell me."

"My... my stomach. Deep. It's so deep, Stephano."

A groan rumbled from his chest. He shifted his angle, his pelvis grinding against mine on the next slow thrust, and the sparks became a fire. My back arched off the bed.

"There?" he asked, his voice guttural.

"Yes. God, yes."

"Say it again."

"Right there. Don't stop."

He didn't. He settled into that angle, each slow, grinding thrust a masterclass in building tension. His hands came down, fingers threading tightly through mine, pinning them beside my head. Our palms pressed together, sweat-slick. He locked our hands, his grip fierce, anchoring us together.

"That's it," he chanted, his voice losing its polish, becoming rough, desperate. "Take me. Just like that. You take all of me, baby. Fuck... look at you."

He was staring down at where we were joined, watching himself disappear inside me,m. His hips began to move with more purpose, the slow drags becoming stronger, deeper pumps. The slap of skin grew louder in the quiet room. It was obscenely intimate.

"You're so beautiful like this," he gritted out, his control fraying at the edges. "Under me. Open for me. So fucking perfect. I used to dream about this. Not just... not just taking you. But this. Feeling you come around me. Watching your face."

His pace increased. The deep strokes became more urgent, more demanding. He was still making love to me, but it was a love that was desperate, hungry, all-consuming. His thrusts drove the breath from me in little punched-out gasps.

"Touch yourself," he ordered, his voice dark and rough. "Show me. Let me see you make yourself feel good."

My hands were trapped. I shook my head, whimpering.

He released one of my hands, his own sliding down between us. "Then I'll do it." His fingers found the slick, swollen flesh above where we were joined, and he pressed a firm, knowing circle.

I cried out, my hips bucking wildly against his hand, against him.

"Yeah," he growled, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, losing their perfect rhythm as pleasure began to overwhelm him. "That's it. Come for me. Let me feel you."

I was splintering. The coil was too tight, the heat too much. "Stephano, I'm... I can't..."

"You can," he panted, his own movements becoming jerky, erratic. "You will. Look at me. Look at me when you come."

My eyes, which had fluttered shut, snapped open. I was drowning in his gaze.

"Say my name," he demanded, pounding into me now, each drive a promise and a punishment for all our wasted time.

"Stephano!"

"I'm right here. I've got you. Let go, Camilla. Now."

A scream tore from my throat, wordless, primal.

The sensation of me pulsing around him was his undoing. With a roar that was pure, unvarnished need, his hips stuttered, and he drove into me one last, final, profound time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

His body bowed, every muscle rigid. His head thrown back, the cords of his neck standing out. And through gritted teeth, as his release claimed him, wrenching through his body in violent shudders, he cried out the words, raw and true and torn from the deepest part of him.

"I love you, Camilla! God, I love you! I love you!"

He collapsed forward, but caught his weight on his forearms, his body still joined to mine, still trembling with the aftershocks. He was panting into the crook of my neck, his skin fever-hot against mine.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled out and rolled, but immediately dragged me with him, wrapping me in his arms so my head lay on his heaving chest. His heart hammered against my ear, a frantic, wild drum.

For a long time, there was only the sound of our struggling breaths. His hand came up, stroking my hair, my back, as if he couldn't stop touching me.

Finally, his voice, hoarse and wrecked, broke the silence. "Did I hurt you?"

I shook my head against his chest, unable to speak.

He let out a long, shaky breath, his arms tightening. "Good," he murmured into my hair. "That's good.”