Page 178 of Wild Then Wed
A whimper escapes me before I can catch it, my hips moving like they’ve got a mind of their own. His teeth drag over my shoulder, and I gasp as his free hand slips between my thighs,finding me wet and ready. “Christ, Wren. You’re still fucking drowning for me.”
I am. God, I am.I’m drowning for him.
But even as my hips tilt back, a flicker of doubt curls low in my stomach. It’s been so long, and he’s—fuck, he’s so big.
As if he can hear the panic threading through my thoughts, his fingers slide into my hair, gently sweeping it aside before his mouth finds my fluttering pulse. “I’ll go slow,” he promises, his lips moving against my skin like a vow. “And if it’s too much, you tell me, and we stop. I mean it.”
Like hell we were going to stop. But I nod, my throat too tight to talk, all coherent language reduced to nothing but static in my brain, in my body.
“Say it. Promise you’ll tell me, Wren.”
His voice is firm but it lands somewhere soft inside me. And it’s not just the words—it’s the way he’s looking at me when he says them. Like I matter. Like I’m not just someone to touch, but someone to take care of.
His eyes search mine, not hurried, not demanding—just patient. Blue, but not cold. Warm blue. Deep blue. With those rings of gold circling the center like summer wheat caught in late afternoon light. They move over my face like he’s reading a language he’s still learning but desperate to get right.
And it hits me then. For how big he is—for the sheer size of him, the power in his arms, the strength I’ve felt pressed against every inch of my skin—he’s gentle. He’s always been gentle. With his hands. His words. The way he always makes sure I’m okay before he moves forward.
My throat tightens and I nod, but he’s still watching me. Waiting for the words.
“I will,” I finally whisper. It’s quiet, almost nothing, but it’s the best I can do.
And somehow, it’s enough, because he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for a while. Like that whisper—my shaky, barely-there yes—means everything to him.
His hand slides down my back, pressing between my shoulder blades until I’m bent forward, my palms still flat against the wall—and then he pushes in.
The first press of him is slow, just the barest stretch and my breath stutters, my body clenching around him. Behind me, he groans, deep and wrecked, his fingers digging into my hips. “Fuck.Fuck. Jesus. Shit, Wren. You’re so tight—”
He’s barely inside of me, just the thick head of his cock stretching me wide, and it already feels like he’s splitting me open in the best way possible. The burn is sharp, blissful, and I arch my back, bowing under the sweet agony of it. He stills, his breath ragged against my shoulder, giving me time to adjust—but then he rolls his hips again, sinking deeper, and my vision whites out at the edges.
The line between pain and pleasure blurs until I can’t tell which one I’m feeling—only that I don’t want it to stop, whatever it is. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but a broken noise escapes me anyway, half-pained, half-wild.
“Fuck, Wren,” he breathes out, his voice tight, strained. “You feel—”
The rest gets lost in a groan as he pushes in deeper, until I’m shaking with the feel of him.
His mouth grazes the curve of my shoulder, and he pants against my skin. “You okay?”
I nod, but that’s not enough. Not with the way I need him.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word breaking apart in my throat. “More.”
He obliges with another slow push and my spine bows again, my hands scrambling against the wall to keep from collapsing. Fuck. He’shuge.Not just long, or thick, but consuming in theway my body feels it now—stretched, stuffed, so full of him that there wasn’t room for a single thought that wasn’t about him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, dragging out almost to the tip before sinking back in, and my body jerks forward with the motion, water splashing around our legs. “God, you take me so fucking good, baby.”
The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the steam-heavy air, each thrust punctuated by the slap of wet flesh and the ragged pull of our breathing. He starts slow, achingly so, letting me feel every inch, every ridge—then faster, deeper, until the rhythm turns relentless, until I’m gasping at the stretch, at the way my body yields and resists in equal measure.
His fingers dig into my waist, grounding me as he drives deeper with a low, guttural sound.
“Jesus, Wren,” he breathes, his mouth at my ear. “You feel like you were made for me. Like your body already knows mine.”
I grind my hips, just slightly, testing how he feels when I move like that—and he groans against my skin. His hand finds my ponytail and wraps around it, firm but careful, pulling just enough to tip my head back and bare my throat. His mouth is there immediately, hot and open, his teeth dragging over the skin just below my ear as he thrusts again—deeper, harder.
“Yeah,” he pants, his voice rough against my neck, “you like this, don’t you?”
I nod, but hetsks,giving my hair another tug. “Words. I wanna hear you say it.”
“I love it.”
