Page 177 of Let Me In

“You’re so wet for me.”

I whimper, back arching, thighs trembling.

He groans low, the sound dark and possessive in his throat.

“Been so fucking good,” he mutters. “Taking care of me, letting me see you like this.”

His mouth finds the hollow of my throat.

“You ready to let me in, little one?”

The question sinks into me like a vow. My breath hitches, eyes stinging. I nod once, heart pounding, body already saying yes—but the words feel like something bigger. Like surrender. Like trust.

I nod again, but he’s not letting me get away with that.

His eyes darken, wild and grounding all at once. There’s a roughness in his exhale, like keeping control is tearing something loose inside him. He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes.

His thumb still circling, coaxing.

“Words.”

My voice breaks when it comes.

“Yes, yes. Please.”

His responding growl is almost feral.

Not with anger, but with something wild and reverent. Like the sound was dragged from his chest by the weight of finally having what he's craved.

Just undone.

“Good girl.”

The praise lands like a hand at the base of my spine—firm, warm, inescapable. I melt into it. Into him.

And then, he shifts again. The bed creaks softly beneath his weight. His hand curls around my thigh, grounding and sure, guiding me open with gentle insistence. Lines himself up. Every movement measured, reverent, a promise written in the heat of his skin and the weight of his gaze.

His cock pushes at my entrance, thick and hot and already stretching me before he even sinks in.

I clutch at his shoulders, breath caught in my throat.

Because it’s been so long.

Because no one’s ever touched me likethis.

He watches my face like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

The head of him pushes deeper. Just an inch, then another. Slow, measured, and utterly possessive.

I try to choke back a moan—quiet and helpless. It burns a little, but it’s good.

It’s so good.

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek. My temple. “You’re doing perfect, sweet girl. So fuckin’ tight. So brave.”

His hands never stop moving. One on my jaw, large and warm, anchoring me in place with reverent steadiness. The other guiding my hip, fingers splayed wide, tilting me just so—like he knows exactly how my body needs to open for him.

His chest brushes mine, hot and solid, and I can feel the tremble in his breath, the restraint in his frame.

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