Love in London by Flora Ferrari

Chapter Nineteen

Gabby

I couldn’t resist him if I wanted to. And I very much don’t want to. Oz practically lifts me off my feet, still kissing me hungrily and tipping my head back, until the only thing I can do is wrap my legs around his hips and hold onto his shoulders for dear life.

Not that I feel unsafe. With his arms around me, I know I’m secure. He lifts me easily, never pausing in his hungry kisses. Between us, where our hips meet, I can feel the hardness of him pressing into my stomach. It sends something fluttering inside of me, some secret signal that my brain knows how to interpret, switching off all other functions to focus on this one here.

I don’t think I would be able to hold a conversation right now even if I had a gun to my head. At least, not an intelligent one.

I don’t even notice when we step into the bedroom, so wrapped up in him, in everything that is happening to my body. It seems to be going so fast and yet so slow – I was so caught up in the massage of his hands, the gentle caresses he gave me, that I almost didn’t register the loss of each piece of clothing. And yet at the same time, something in my head knew, knew the significance of each piece stripped away from me. It’s heady and confusing and exhilarating and so many other things I don’t know how to name.

I can’t breathe until he releases my mouth for a moment, a moment in which my body yearns for more of him. Screw oxygen. I don’t need oxygen. I need him.

I lift my head up towards him, seeking his mouth, but suddenly it’s even further away. I feel something soft hit my back as the world tilts and I know he’s placed me down on the bed, lifting his body above mine. I’m naked in front of him, and I thought at this moment I would be shy, embarrassed, awkward. But the way he looks at me – the way his eyes worship me, drinking me in like the best view he’s ever seen – takes all of that away. It makes me want him to look more. To look at me always.

But more than that – much more than that – I want his touch.

I think of sitting up, reaching for him, drawing him close to me again. But before I can do that he’s off the bed, standing at the foot of it, and I want to follow him. Instead, I watch, my mouth going dry all of a sudden as he puts his fingers to the waistline of his underwear and hooks it down.

I see him – all of him. From the ridges of his six pack, the curves of his arms, and his thighs, all honed in the gym to perfection, my eyes can only slip and slide down to his cock. I have never seen another man in the flesh like this, but I know enough to know that I must be looking at something above the average size.

It’s a little intimidating, I won’t lie. But also exciting. Because he has the body of a god, of a warrior, all honed and sleek, matching up with the expectations that he gives when you see him in clothes. And he is mine. Maybe not forever, but right now. He is mine. And that means something.

That means everything.

I reach for him wordlessly, hopelessly, my hands closing on air because he’s so far away. But he sees my wordless request and answers it, climbing onto the bed, holding himself over me on his hands and knees. He kisses me deeply, and the whole world disappears around us. All I am, all I know, is this body, and his hand moving down my side, stroking over my skin, setting me on fire.

I can barely stand it. The anticipation, the desire, the urgent need for him. It’s impossible to put into words, and I don’t try. I just kiss him back, then throw my head back and gasp when his mouth moves to my throat, down over my chest, to circle his tongue around my sensitive nipples.

His fingers slip between us, parting my legs again, reaching to stroke lightly across my wetness. I can’t help but gasp and arch my hips up towards him, needing more, needing everything. His hand slips down, a finger probing me at the same time as his thumb circles my most responsive nerves, driving sensations I’ve never felt before as he breaches me. The pressure inside, the pressure outside, all combine to this one startling and thrilling heady pleasure, tingling from my head to my toes.

When his finger withdraws, I almost cry out in anguish, wanting it back right away. But then I open my eyes and see what he’s doing and I can’t catch my breath. He’s holding himself now, shifting his weight, changing his angle above me. Lining himself up to enter me.

I can’t help but watch wide-eyed, lifting my head from the pillow to see. It can’t fit. It won’t fit. Will it? But then I feel it teasing me, rubbing against my entrance, and I know two things, first, that the human body is a wonderful thing that can do more than you expect, and second, that I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I raise my hips to him, whimpering quietly in the back of my throat with need, but he pushes me down.

“Let me. I’ll be gentle,” he says, breathing in, and meeting my eyes just for a moment. He must see that I understand and agree because there’s no way I can make my mouth form the words – but somehow he nods and looks back to the task at hand, and begins to push forward.

It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever felt. A stretching feeling, a kind of pop, and he’s inside, just barely. A flare of pain at the size of his length that quickly vanishes; his hand moves back to where it was, his thumb stroking that bundle of nerves gently, and I don’t even know if he realizes how much it stirs me up when he does that. How much it makes me want to move. To take all of him. An instinctive feeling, born out of genes that know far more about this process than my conscious brain does.

I think he senses my restlessness, my need because he eases forward just a little more. Just as it starts to feel uncomfortable again, to fill me up too much, he stops moving, and all the pressure inside slowly eases off over the seconds until he moves again. I don’t know how he knows, whether he can tell from my face or he is driven by instinct as well, but every time it begins to hurt too much he stops – and every time it feels good he moves again.

Finally, I hear him give a soft moan, and I look down, trying to keep my eyes open long enough to see. I think he’s all the way inside me, his head thrown back just for a moment as mine was before he looks down at me fiercely. Possessively.

Our eyes meet, and I know. In this moment, he owns me. I only had one virginity to give, and he has taken it, and it is his. I am his. For this moment and for all time, there is no changing that. No matter what may happen later, this moment stretches forward for the rest of our lives.

He’s claimed me, and by the primal expression in his eyes, he knows it, and by the way, he fills me so completely, I feel it.

And with a growl, low in his chest, he begins to move again, and it’s so much more than I ever could have imagined.

He pulls out slowly and pushes back in at the same pace, driving a delicious friction that is so new and yet so old I know my bones know it. There’s a strain on his face, in the muscles of his neck standing out against his skin, and at first, I wonder why. But as he moves the friction becomes more pleasurable, the action more comfortable, and I know.

He’s holding back – being gentle for me, just like he said.

“Don’t,” I pant, and he immediately freezes up, which is the opposite of what I wanted. I force my tongue to form the rest of the words, to find them somewhere back in the depths of my overwhelmed brain. “Don’t hold back.”

He moves slowly inside me like he can’t stop moving for anything. “Are you sure?” he asks, studying my face, his eyes drifting back and forth like he’s searching for something.

I might be nervous. Scared, even. This is the first time I’m trying any of this.

But the one thing I’m not is uncertain.

“Yes,” I breathe, and Oz groans in the back of his throat like he can’t take it, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

When they open, he looks at me with something even more fierce, even more primal. He grips my hips with both of his hands and before I can even brace myself, he pulls out and thrusts back in hard, making me gasp, sending vibrations running through all of my nerves that are unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

He doesn’t stop moving then, not for anything. He grabs me in his huge hands, a sensation of safety and possession that somehow heightens everything even more, and thrusts into me with a speed and ferocity that almost unmoors me completely. I grasp hold of the sheets in my hands, feeling them twist in my fingers, desperately trying to hold onto something, anything. My whole body jolts up and down under the force of his thrusts, and underneath all the overwhelming sensations is something else, something growing larger and harder to ignore by the second. A screaming pleasure starting in that cluster of nerves somewhere inside me and spiraling out, filling me just as completely as he does, spreading with each slam of his body against mine, each brush of him inside of me, each time he pulls back out.

It’s so intense I don’t know how to breathe through it. So wild I don’t know how to hold onto my sanity through it. So big, so hard to contain, that I don’t think I can – and it rises up inside of me, taking over like a flood, shattering all of my control, all my boundaries…

I let go with a cry and feel myself soaring somewhere higher than I thought possible, strange currents running through my whole body and making it twitch and jerk on its own, driven by the pure ecstasy radiating through me.

My last thought is that I imagined the thing we did in the closet was amazing. I had no idea just how incredible this could really feel.