No one else.
I trust him. I know him.
I am not chained to a cot in a cell.
I want this.
My fear does not rule me. My past trauma no longer defines me. I am a woman, with a woman's needs and desires. I can trust Lorenzo to be gentle. To give me pleasure without pain.
I press my hand over his and guide his touch down until his fingers cover the triangle of my sex. My eyes squeeze shut at the intimate heat of his hand, the rough sandpaper of his touch. My breath catches. He does nothing else, just waits.
"Soph?"
"I'm alright. Just…" I force my eyes open yet again and look at his hand, covering me. He's searching my face in the reflection, concerned, cautious. Ready to pull me into his embrace the moment I show any sign of distress.
"I'm alright," I whisper. "Thank you for being so patient, Ren."
His other hand palms my cheek, turns my head toward his. His lips ghost over mine. "I love you, Sophia. Whatever you want, whatever you need. I am yours. I'm here for you."
I whimper at his words, the undisguised passion in them like a bolt of heat to my heart, setting it to pounding, making my stomach flip with desire, my heart crash with love. "Kiss me?" I breathe. "Please?"
"God, yes," he growls.
His kiss is slow and gentle and delicate, his lips soft and wet and warm. A surge of intense emotion floods my system—an emotional response to the kiss.
Desire.
That's the feeling.
Need.
Desperate need swells within me—exactly as I remember feeling for him when we were kids first discovering sex together in the hayloft by the light of a stolen lantern.
I let my tongue steal over his lip. Lean further back against him, wrap a hand around his nape and pull him down to me. Break, panting. "More."
He growls his desire, and gives me his tongue. I take it, taste it. Our kiss deepens, becomes a fury of mated mouths and panted breaths. I shift my legs apart to give him more access, and he takes it as the invitation it is.
His middle finger swipes up my tender seam, and I gasp into his kiss, break but don't pull away, panting against his mouth as he uses just the pad of his middle finger to pet my seam.
I inhale, a deep filling of my lungs, turn away from his mouth to look into the mirror; as I watch, Lorenzo slides his finger inside me.
I release my held breath on a whimper. "Ohhhh…god!" I cling to his neck as my legs shake.
"So tight, Soph. So wet."
I can’t respond—I can barely catch my breath.
He delves inside me, exploring my depths. Withdraws, drags his now-glistening finger up…and touches my clit.
"Oh god!" I cry. "Ren!"
"You're so responsive, my beautiful one," he says, and I realize belatedly he's switched to our shared native language.
"More," I whisper.
He plunges his finger back inside me, withdraws it and smears my essence against my clit. My legs jerk, threaten to give out.
He cups my breasts in his other hand, teases my nipples, tweaks and twists one and then the other, and smears my essence against my clit. I cry out, and my legs shake and turn to jelly, and he sets a slow, building rhythm. Slow circles at first that make me pant in time with his touch. And then faster, and faster, and now my hips start to writhe and gyrate, pressing into his touch as I pant and gasp.
