When Guilermo entered me. I gasped, my back arching off the mattress, my fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to tear the fabric of his shirt. The sensation was absolute. It was a white-hot spike of pleasure that drove straight through the fear, the logic, and the carefully constructed walls of my resolve.
He didn't give me a second to adjust. He didn't wait for me to breathe.
He moved.
He was driving the doubt out of my body with the sheer force of his own. He was claiming me, not with a mark on my neck, but with the weight of his hips and the desperate, possessive slide of skin against skin.
"Look at me," he growled, his voice a rough vibration against my jaw.
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. Tears leaked out, hot and stinging. If I looked at him, I would see the t
