Page 88 of Curvy Cabin Fever
I stroke him slowly, reveling in the way his breath catches, the way his eyes roll back, the impressive hardness of him making my own body ache with anticipation.
“You want me?” I ask, needing to hear him say it.
His voice breaks on the word. “Yes.”
“Then tell me how you want it.”
He blinks up at me, lips parted, vulnerability written across his features. “I want you to fuck me.”
My entire body goes still, the confession hitting me like a physical blow because hearing those words from him means everything. I’ve imagined this moment countless times, but fantasy pales against the reality of Rhett beneath me, eyes dark with desire and vulnerability, asking for something he’s probably never asked for before.
And I assumed I would be the bottom in this situation.
“You sure?” My voice comes out hoarse, barely audible over the thundering of my heart.
He nods, a single jerky movement. “Just... I’ve never…” he admits, and the roughness in his voice makes something in my chest tighten.
He’s never been with another man. I know, and I’m so fucking happy it’s me.
I lean over to the bedside drawer, where I’d stashed supplies the first day we arrived—hopeful or presumptuous, I’m not sure which. The bottle feels cool against my palm as I click it open. I warm the lube between my fingers before moving between his thighs, giving him time to change his mind, to pull away.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he plants his feet on the mattress and lets his knees fall open, the most trusting gesture I’ve ever seen from him.
“I’ll go slow,” I promise, placing a steadying hand on his hip.
The first touch makes him inhale sharply—my slicked finger circling, testing, before pressing gently inside. His body resistsinitially, tight with tension, and I wait, watching his face for any sign of discomfort.
“Breathe,” I murmur, and he does, a long exhale that makes his chest fall and some of the tightness around my finger ease.
Rhett clutches at the sheets, his knuckles going white as I work him open with patient deliberation, adding a second finger when his body yields to the first. I curl them carefully, searching, and when I find that spot inside him, his back arches off the bed.
“Fuck,” he gasps, eyes flying open, pupils blown wide.
“Good?” I ask, though his reaction tells me everything I need to know.
He nods wordlessly, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle pulsing beneath his stubbled skin. His thighs tremble with the effort of holding himself open, vulnerable—a state I know doesn’t come naturally to him.
When I add a third finger, stretching him with meticulous care, sweat beads along his hairline. His breathing comes in short, controlled bursts, like he’s fighting for composure. I lean down to kiss his stomach, his chest, the hollow of his throat—anywhere I can reach—while my fingers continue their slow, thorough preparation.
“Morgan,” he groans, voice wrecked. “I’m ready. Please.”
The plea in his voice nearly undoes me. I withdraw my fingers carefully, his body clutching at them as if reluctant to let go. More lube, then I’m positioning myself between his legs, the blunt head of my dick pressing against him. Our eyes lock, a moment of perfect understanding passing between us.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” I say, needing him to know he has control here, even when he’s giving it up.
The first push is exquisitely slow—just the head of my dick breaching him, his body yielding inch by reluctant inch. The sensation is almost too intense, heat and pressure surroundingme in a way that threatens to shatter my control. Rhett’s mouth falls open, a soundless gasp, his eyes squeezed shut.
I pause, buried just past the crown, giving him time to adjust. My arms tremble with the effort of holding back, of not driving forward into that perfect heat. He pants as a fine sheen of sweat makes his skin glow.
“More,” he whispers after what feels like eternity, his hands finding my forearms, gripping tight.
I sink deeper, watching his face transform with each inch. Pain and pleasure war across his features, neither quite winning out until I’m fully seated inside him, our bodies connected as completely as they can be. When I finally push all the way in—bottoming out with a slow, deep slide—he makes a sound like something fundamental breaking open within him; a raw, vulnerable noise I’ve never heard from him before.
“Christ, you feel...” I trail off, unable to find words adequate for the sensation.
His eyes flutter open, meeting mine with an intensity that steals my breath. There’s wonder there, mixed with desire and a hint of astonishment, as if he’s surprised by his own response to this invasion.
