Free Docked by Rachael Wade

says again, as if reading my mind. His mouth leaves my entrance and he crawls up over me, digging his teeth into my shoulder blade. He settles himself on his elbows, and then I feel him between my thighs, gently prodding, searching for a way in. My clit is pulsating. “You’re exquisite, Anya. Tell me,” he tips his hips, “when’s the last time you’ve been with a man?”
    My body stiffens. “Why?”
    “I’d like to know.”
    “It’s been a while.”
    “Did he satisfy you?”
    “I…I don’t know.”
    He tips his hips again, brushing against me. It’s divine torture. “I think you’d know if you were satisfied.”
    “He was considerate, I guess.”
    “Considerate is good. But did he know how to please you?”
    My fingers curl around the edges of the pillow. “No.” A tightness begins to twitch behind my ribcage.
    He kisses along my shoulder and his throat hums against my skin. “Well, I know how. And when I’m done with you, you’ll know what it means to be satisfied.”
    “I’m a little nervous.” I wiggle beneath him, attempting to push out some of the tension that’s seeped back into my bones.
    “Take your time, baby. Breathe and let me in when you’re ready.” He rests himself against me, his hard flesh throbbing, and I close my eyes, dragging in a long, slow breath. I gently push back against him, letting him know I’m ready for him, and he carefully slides in, lowering his forehead to my shoulder as he rolls his hips forward. A joint exhale fills the room, and my entire body disintegrates on the mattress as he begins to take me. All my body registers is the heavenly feel of him stretching and filling me, his heat blanketing my back, but my mind is fixed on the pace he’s setting—slow and measured, as if he knows I need the tameness right now.
    My body begins to move in rhythm with his, and my grip relaxes on the pillow. He caresses my shoulder and explores a trail down my side, running his palm along the curve of my breast and over the flare of my hip, where he stops to grip. Each touch is luxurious and gentle. He’s not treating me like an object; he’s not fucking me. He’s making love, and it’s the very last thing I expected from a man like Tanner Christensen.
    “Feel good, baby?” He nudges my ear and bites down on the sensitive flesh, until it stings.
    “Yes,” I say with a raspy breath, “incredible.”
    He pulls out and rolls me onto my back, and when his eyes find mine, the room tilts. The space is too small, his beating heart too close, those eyes too penetrating. He sinks back into me on a strained groan, and he covers me as if he needs me to breathe. His forearms form a tight cage around my head, his fingers weaving through my hair as his hips resume their rhythm.
    “Show me how to please you, Anya.” He drops his head and breathes against my neck. “Don’t be shy.”
    One of my hands glides up to grab at his forearm, directing his hand to my breast. I press his palm against me and he responds immediately, gripping hard, rubbing in soft, easy circles. I moan and his smile spreads against my neck, his lips curving in satisfaction. “Tanner,” I whisper, question in my voice, “kiss me?”
    “My pleasure.” He lifts his head and pauses, fixing his eyes on me first, then lowers his mouth to mine, tracing my bottom lip with his tongue, beckoning me to open for him. Unlike his caresses, his kiss is hard, hungry, sending my arms in a firm knot around his neck. Our noses brush, his head tilting to bring his tongue deeper, and suddenly the pace of his hips begins to shift, our bodies moving faster, more urgently.
    He pulls back from my mouth. “You’re close. I can feel it,” he pants, our breaths mingling.
    “Don’t stop.”
    “Lock your ankles, baby.” He reaches down and hitches my legs higher up his waist, sending himself deeper. “Do you like that?”
    “God, yes.” My gaze rolls south to watch our bodies join and merge, my hips rising to meet his