2. The first time

The world had narrowed to breath and skin.

His hands gripped your thighs like he owned them, lips claiming yours again and again, and still — you wanted more. Needed it. That ache inside you had bloomed into something fierce and needy, a sweet pressure that pulsed with every grind of his hips against yours.

But there was something else, too — that flutter of nerves. The one you’d carried for a while now. Something unspoken. Untouched.

Cole paused.

His forehead rested against yours, breath ragged. He looked at you, really looked. His thumb stroked your cheek, and for a moment, the heat simmered down into something tender. Intimate.

“You okay?” he asked.

God, his voice. Low. Raspy. The kind of voice that makes you want to say yes to anything.

You swallowed. Your legs tightened around his waist, but you nodded. “I just…” You hesitated.

He stilled. His brow furrowed. “Tell me.”

You looked down, breath catching. “I’ve never… I haven’t… done this before.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. You waited for the shift, the awkward pause, maybe even a step back.

But Cole didn’t move away.

His jaw clenched. A beat passed — then another — and then his fingers tilted your chin back up, eyes burning into yours.

“You’re a virgin.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

He exhaled slowly, something dark and possessive flickering in his eyes. His voice dropped even lower.

“Say it again.”

“Cole—”

“Say it,” he growled softly.

Your heart pounded. “I’m a virgin.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. His grip tightened slightly on your waist — protective, not rough — like the truth had lit something dangerous inside him.

“You waited this long,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, “and now you’re gonna give it to me?”

“Yes.”

His breath hitched. His forehead pressed to yours again, and for a moment he was quiet — like he was fighting a war in his chest.

“I should slow down,” he rasped.

“You won’t hurt me,” you whispered, and meant it.

His eyes darkened. “No, sweetheart. But I’m gonna wreck you.”

Then he kissed you again — but this time it was different. Slower. Deeper. Full of reverence.

Like he was tasting something sacred.

He carried you inside without breaking the kiss — one arm under your thighs, the other at your back. The screen door swung open and shut, the world melting behind it. Your body pressed to his, heat radiating between you, soaking into your skin, your soul.

He took you to the bedroom like he’d already dreamed of this — like he’d imagined every step. And when he set you down, he didn’t rush.

His fingers trailed up your thighs, under your dress, pushing it slowly over your hips.

“I’ve thought about this,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “Every damn night since you got here.”

You gasped when his hands reached your hips — and not just from the touch, but from the way he looked at you.

Like he’d been starving.

“I’m gonna make you feel good,” he said, brushing his lips over your neck. “Gonna show you how it feels to be wanted.”

He peeled your dress over your head, leaving you bare to the warm night air and his ravenous gaze. You tried to cover yourself instinctively, but he stopped you with a firm touch.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”

His hand flattened against your belly. “You’re perfect. All of you. Mine.”

His mouth followed his hands — down your throat, over your chest, slow, wet kisses that left you shaking. He worshipped every inch like you were something holy and fragile and fierce.

And when he finally touched you — really touched you — between your thighs, you arched into him with a cry that made him groan against your skin.

“You’re soaked,” he muttered. “You want this.”

You nodded desperately.

He slipped a finger inside — slow, careful — watching your face the entire time. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It doesn’t,” you gasped. “It—feels good.”

And it did. New. Deep. Sweet pressure building where his hand worked and his mouth kissed and his voice whispered filth-soft praise in your ear.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he breathed. “So tight. So ready for me.”

When he finally undressed, when you saw all of him, your breath caught. He was hard. Thick. Beautiful. And yours.

“Still sure?” he asked, voice raw.

You reached for him, pulling him down, kissing him like an answer. “Please.”

He lined himself up, pressing the tip against your entrance. His jaw clenched like he was holding back a growl.

“You tell me if it’s too much,” he warned.

You nodded.

Then he pushed in — slow, careful — inch by inch. Your body stretched, burned, adjusted. He was big. Bigger than you expected. But he was patient, murmuring in your ear, “Almost there. You’re doing so good. Just a little more.”

And when he was fully inside you, buried deep, he didn’t move right away. Just held you. Let you feel it. Let you own it.

You were full. Claimed.

And when he started to move — rocking slowly, deeply — your breath hitched, your hands grasped at his shoulders, and the pain melted into pleasure that made your toes curl.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “That’s my girl.”

You moaned.

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

“Fuck.”

His rhythm built, slow and sensual, dragging sweet moans from your lips as you started to move with him, meeting every thrust, trembling under his hands.

You came undone with a cry, your whole body shattering around him — and he followed, hips snapping harder, breath stuttering against your neck as he emptied himself inside you with a low, growled, “Mine.”

When it was over, he didn’t pull away.

He kissed your temple, pulled the sheet around your shaking body, and held you like he’d never let go.

You were still catching your breath when he murmured, “Next time…”

You blinked up at him. “Next time?”

He smiled. That rare, heart-melting smile.

“I go slower.”

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