Chapter 8: I’ve never
Joseph watched, heart hammering against his ribs, as she pushed him back gently against the worn leather of the armchair. He didn’t resist, his body yielding, his eyes locked on hers.
She sank to her knees on the rug, the woven wool rough against her skin. The firelight outlined her in a soft, flickering gold, catching the strands of her loose brown hair. For a moment, she just looked at him, her hazel eyes wide, taking in the sight and length of him. Her expression was one of focused curiosity, mixed with a resolve that made his breath catch.
He was hard, aching with a pulse that seemed to echo through the quiet room. When her hand finally reached out, her fingers wrapping around him, he shuddered violently. A low groan tore from his throat, raw and unbidden. “Ohhh, yes.”
She hadn’t even done anything yet—just the simple, confident claim of her touch was enough to unravel him. Her skin was surprisingly cool against his feverish heat. She looked up at him from under her lashes, watching the effect she had, a small, secret smile playing on her lips.
Then she began to move her hand, a slow, deliberate stroke that made his head fall back against the chair. His fingers clenched in the leather. Every rational thought—the danger, the morality, the sheer insanity of this—burned away in the wake of that single, perfect point of contact. “Anastasia,” he breathed, her name a prayer and a plea.
“Shhh,” she murmured, her voice steady, though her own breathing had quickened. “Just let me.”
He tilted his head forward, looking at her watching him. She slowly leant down and took him in her mouth.
“Ohhh, God.” He moaned loudly, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands flew to the arms of the chair, gripping until the leather strained. She looked up at him, her hazel eyes holding his over the intimate connection, and he whimpered at the sight. What she didn’t have in her mouth, her hand stroked the rest of him, a perfect, devastating syncopation.
The dual sensation was catastrophic, a flood of pure feeling that short-circuited every coherent thought. His vision blurred at the edges, narrowing to the crown of her head, the curve of her shoulder, the impossible reality of her. A shaky curse escaped him, lost in the quiet pop of the fire.
Her rhythm was tentative at first, then grew more confident, guided by the sharp hitch of his breath or the uncontrolled jerk of his hips .He forced himself still, a tremor running through his thighs. “Anastasia… I can’t…” he warned, his voice strangled.
She released him with a soft, wet sound, her lips glistening. “You can.” Her own breathing was ragged, her cheeks flushed. “Let go.” She took him deep again, her hand working the base, and that was it.
The world dissolved into a white-hot wave of release. It crashed through him, pulling a ragged shout from his lungs as he arched back into the chair. She stayed with him, riding out the shuddering pulses until he was spent, collapsed back against the leather, utterly hollowed out.
He was adrift, a slow return to his body, to the feel of the worn leather under his palms and the weight of her head resting on his thigh.
Her cheek was warm against his skin. He looked down, his vision clearing, to see her watching him with a quiet, searching expression. There was no triumph there, only a shared wonder at the precipice they’d just stepped over. He reached a trembling hand to brush a strand of hair from her flushed cheek. “Come here,” he whispered, his voice gravel.
He shifted, pulling her up from the floor. He took her by the shoulders and gently pushed her back into the warm leather he’d just vacated.
“Joseph…” she started, but the objection died as he sank to his knees before her, his blue eyes locked on hers with an intensity that stole her breath. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, the plain cotton a stark contrast to the moment. She lifted her hips to help him, a small, wordless consent.
He drew them slowly down her legs, his knuckles brushing her skin, and tossed them aside. The cool workshop air kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps. He didn’t rush. He settled between her knees, his hands firm on her thighs, and just looked at her for a heartbeat, his gaze worshipping the sight. Then he leaned in.
He started slow, achingly so, just the tip of his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate circle around her clit. A sharp, surprised gasp tore from her throat. Her hands flew to his head, her fingers twisting into his black, fluffy hair, fisting the strands as if for anchor. “Oh, god,” she breathed, the words dissolving into a shaky sigh.
He continued that maddening, gentle circling, building a slow, delicious friction that made her hips jerk involuntarily. Every nerve ending felt alive, singling out that one point of contact.
“Please,” she heard herself whimper, the sound foreign and desperate. It was all the encouragement he needed. The circling tightened, focused, his tongue applying a firmer, rhythmic pressure exactly where she needed it. Her back arched off the chair, a silent cry on her lips. The world outside the circle of firelight ceased to exist.
Every thread of her awareness pulled taut and thrummed towards the point where his mouth worked her with a devastating precision. The pressure coiled, deep and insistent, a spring wound to its breaking point. She could feel her orgasm building, a cresting wave she was suddenly, fiercely, not ready for.
It felt too final, too solitary. She wanted him inside her when it happened. “Wait,” she gasped, the word a strained pull of air.
Her hands, still tangled in his hair, tugged him back. He looked up, his lips wet and his blue eyes clouded with a dazed hunger. She pulled his head away from her and kissed him, tasting herself on his mouth—a sharp, intimate flavour that sent a new shock through her system. The kiss was fierce, a claiming.
She broke it, standing up on unsteady legs. The cool air of the workshop hit her heated skin, a momentary shock. She pushed him back against the chair, her palms flat on his chest. He went willingly, his body pliant under her hands, his gaze locked on her with a question he didn’t voice.
She climbed into his lap, straddling him, the coarse hair of his thighs rough against her inner skin. The position made her feel dizzyingly high, in control and utterly vulnerable at once. He was hard against her stomach, a promise of what came next.
She didn’t take him inside, not yet. Instead, she shifted her hips, settling him at her entrance.
He looked down, watching as she slowly ground against him, the slide of her wetness along his length an exquisite friction. She wanted to feel him hard against her, just this, as she moved. The feeling was new to him, this intimate, deliberate teasing.
He groaned loudly, his head falling back against the chair. “I— fuck, I can’t—” he couldn’t finish, the sentence fracturing into a sharp breath as she rolled her hips again, a slow, circling press that made his vision splinter. His hands clamped onto her waist, holding her steady, his fingers digging into her soft skin.
“You can,” she whispered, her own voice tight. Her eyes were shut, her brow furrowed in concentration, lost in the sensation. “Just feel it.”
She moved again, a little faster now, the friction building a heat that spread through his whole body. He was utterly at her mercy, mesmerized by the sight of her above him, by the raw, frustrated pleasure on her face. Every nerve was awake, screaming for release, but she held them both in this torturous, beautiful limbo.
“I’ve never—” He didn’t finish his sentence.
The confession hung in the air, incomplete and raw. She stopped moving, her own pleasure momentarily suspended by the weight of his admission. She looked down at his face, seeing the vulnerable truth there, clear in the unguarded blue of his eyes. “Never?” she whispered.
He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze dropping from her face to where their bodies almost joined. The vulnerability was a physical thing, a cold draft in the warm room.
“I haven’t done this before,” he admitted, looking down. His voice was quiet, stripped of any pretense. She grabbed his face, her palms cool against his heated cheeks, and made him look at her. His blue eyes were wide, earnest, and swimming with a terrified honesty that made her chest ache.
“This?” she asked softly, her thumbs tracing his jawline. “Sex?”
“Yes” he said, a faint, self-deprecating smile touching his lips.
His admission floated between them, fragile as a dust mote in the firelight.
Anastasia didn’t pull away. Her expression softened, the headstrong certainty melting into something more tender, more awed. She kissed him, a slow, deep seal of acceptance against his lips. He tasted the salt of his own skin and her.
She leaned back slightly, breaking the kiss but holding his gaze. Then she began to move again, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that pressed him against her, sending a fresh, electric jolt through them both. She watched his face, studying every flicker of reaction.
His hands went to her waist, his grip firm and real. Somehow, touching her now felt more sensitive, stronger after that admission. The pretense was gone. Everything was laid bare, and the raw truth of it amplified every point of contact, every shared breath.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, her voice husky. Her own movements became less of a tease and more of a guide. “Just this. Just us, right here.”
He nodded, swallowing hard. The vulnerability was still there, a sharp edge beneath the pleasure, but it was mixed now with a profound trust. He let his hands slide up her back, feeling her as she moved above him. The fire popped, echoing the crackle in his veins.
“Tell me what you want,” she breathed, her forehead nearly touching his.
“You,” he managed, the word torn from him. “I want you.”
“You have me,” she said, the words a soft breath against his mouth.
She reached down between them, her hand finding him. Her fingers were sure now, no longer exploring but claiming. She guided him to her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her. The sensation was a bolt of pure, white-hot possibility.
He groaned, his head falling forward to her shoulder. “Ohhh.” The sound was torn from deep in his chest, a raw vibration against her skin.
She hadn’t even slid down. She just held him there, poised at that unbearable threshold. She listened to the ragged sounds he made, each ragged breath a confirmation of the power she held and the trust he gave. The ache inside her was a deep, throbbing pulse that matched the frantic beat of his heart against her own.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
He lifted his head. His eyes were blown dark, his pupils swallowing the blue. Sweat gleamed at his temples. In his gaze, she saw no trace of the gentleman from the square, only a raw, hungry need that mirrored her own. It was the most honest thing she’d ever seen.
“Please,” he pleaded, his voice cracking.
She lowered herself onto him, an inch, a devastating, slow surrender. The stretch was exquisite, a filling ache that made her gasp. She saw his jaw clench, the muscles in his neck cording as he fought for control.
She paused, her body trembling with the effort of stillness. Every nerve was shrieking, singing. She was so full.
“Anastasia,” he begged, his hands tightening on her hips.
She sank the rest of the way down in one smooth, final motion, taking him fully inside. A sharp cry escaped her, muffled against his shoulder. He made a guttural sound, a mix of shock and profound relief. For a long moment, neither of them moved, fused together, breathing each other’s air.