“No,” he murmurs in my ear. “Not give up on me. Just give in to me, Demi. Let me take care of you.”
I attempt to push up in a move of defiance, but his weight is too much, and the position of my arms is awkward preventing it. I open my mouth to protest, but he thrusts inside of me, hard, hitting the deepest part of me, that place that lies somewhere between pure ecstasy and pain; that delicious spot. I cry out, my mind waging war on my body; fighting to get him off of me or beg him to never ever stop.
“Connor,” I plead, unsure of what exactly I’m pleading for. But something tells me he knows. He’s breaking me; forcing me to fight the ingrained part of myself that would never let someone I love do something that would hurt themselves, especially for me, and instead submitting—handing over my free will in the name of love.
“That’s it, baby. Let it go,” he coos as he pulls out slowly and thrusts back in, hard, hitting that spot once more. I shriek and can’t understand why I can’t seem to fight him. I want to. I want to argue and yell and scream at him for asking me to sit back, for using his body to manipulate me, but the fight in me gets caught on a sob. I’m crying, sobbing really, as he moves in and out of me, kissing me sweetly, his hand fisting my hair, gripping me in a firm but gentle way. The moment is brutal in the most profoundly exquisite way. I’m agreeing to his terms. I’m agreeing to let him do something that he has no business doing. And I’m agreeing to it because I’ve given myself to him. He owns me. And while it breaks my heart to lose my voice in this argument, giving myself to him this way is the most freeing feeling I have ever felt. He needs me to give myself to him this way. To trust him. And I love him so much, I’ve just handed it over.
I can feel his body tense as he moves faster. He’s already wrenched my orgasm from me, the wetness slick between us, and he’s close to his own. His breath hitches and tiny grunts escape him as he pounds against me and between my sobs, I tell him I love him. I tell him how good he feels. I tell him to let go with me—that I’m here—that I’ll always be here. When he releases, he groans loudly as if it feels so good it hurts as he throbs inside of me, then collapses. Through ragged hot breaths, he kisses my shoulder and cheek that is wet with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, slipping to the side and pulling me against him, my back to his front. “I don’t think you’ll ever know how beautiful that was; how much that meant to me.”
I nod, weeping quietly as I gather his fist in my hand and kiss it softly. He’s not talking about the sex, all though it was amazing and beautiful. He means how I succumbed; how I let him take his place in my life as my man. “No one has ever given themselves to me like that, Demi,” he continues. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I promise.”
In his embrace, I continue to weep, and he holds me, his arms strong around me. When I calm down, my breathing normal, I ask him in a husky voice, “Tell me what happened to Blake? Tell me about killing the man that hurt him.”
Connor presses his mouth to my shoulder and stays there, and I can tell he’s trying to decide if he should share this secret or not. “Blake was eleven. I was fifteen,” he begins. “Grams was a good woman, but her love always has come with unlimited forgiveness and her daughters took full advantage of it. My mother came back more often than Blake’s. And every time she did she’d bring some fucking loser home with her.”