"Like this. On my back. I want to see you."
"Perfect." He settles between my legs, kisses me softly. "We go slow. You tell me if anything doesn't feel good."
"Okay."
His finger circles me, gentle, patient. I tense, the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, and he pauses immediately.
"Relax," he murmurs, kissing my thigh. "I've got you."
I breathe. Focus on his voice, his hand on my thigh, the warmth of him. He works one finger in slowly, watching my face, and the sensation is strange. Not bad. Fuller than I expected. More intimate than I could have imagined.
"Okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Keep going."
When he finds the spot inside me, I gasp, a sharp, full-body reaction.
"Oh." I breathe. "Oh fuck, that's —"
"Good?"
"So good. More. Please."
A second finger. The stretch is more now, but his other hand is stroking my thigh and his mouth is pressing kisses to my hip and he's watching my face with such focused attention that I feel seen in a way that's almost unbearable.
"You're doing so well," he says, and the praise goes through me like electricity. "Taking me so perfectly."
I want to cry. Not from pain. He's so careful. But from the enormity of it. Someone is touching me like I matter, speaking to me like I'm precious, taking their time with my body like it deserves patience.
I've read about this. Hundreds of books, thousands of scenes. No book prepared me for the reality of someone whispering you're doing so well while their fingers are inside you and they mean it.
A third finger. The stretch burns, then eases. He curls his fingers and I cry out, hips rolling down to meet his hand.
"Silas, please, I need —"
"Soon." His voice is strained, his control showing cracks. "You're doing so good, Dev."
"Please. I'm ready."
He withdraws carefully. His hands are shaking slightly. His hands. Shaking. Because of me.
He positions himself. Meets my eyes. "Sure?"
"Please. Want to feel you. All of you."
He pushes in slowly. So slowly.
The fullness is overwhelming. Not painful, not with how carefully he prepared me, but intense. I grip his shoulders and forget to breathe. I see the moment he registers something, a flicker in his eyes, but I pull him closer before his brain can catch up.
"Don't stop," I say. "Please don't stop."
He pushes the rest of the way in. We both groan.
"Okay?" He stays perfectly still.
"Perfect. You're perfect. So full —"
He starts to move. Slow, careful rocks. Every movement sends sensation through me, not just physical but emotional, the intimacy of having someone this close who you chose, who you wanted, who says your name like it's holy.