None of the girls talked about this part. Why hadn’t I probed them more with their loss of virginity tales? There was nothing beautiful about the first time. It was all a lie. A terrible, cruel myth designed to make girls fear it less. Screw you, romance authors; those heroines didn’t gasp in pleasure, they gasped in pain.

They were all lia⁠—

I sucked in a breath when Blake shifted, adjusting the angle.

An unexpected bolt of pleasure shot through my entire body. I tore away from his mouth, my breath catching.

Blake froze, alarmed. “B?”

“That felt good,” I whispered.

His eyes widened, and I swore I caught a flicker of triumph beneath the worry. “Yeah?”

I nodded. “Do it again.”

He did, slow and careful. And this time, it felt…different.

The ache remained, but beneath it was something else, something I could chase. Blake watched me as if he was trying to memorize every reaction, his lips curving slightly as my eyes rolled back. He took his time, moving slowly and deliberately to catch my expressions. He liked seeing what he was doing to me. Liked knowing he was the only one who had ever touched me like this.

My fingers dug into his back, my body arching toward him as he started moving with more confidence.

We both gasped.

“Okay?” he asked, his voice breathless.

I nodded, unable to form words.

His hands gripped my thighs, my waist, my hips. I clung to him, anchoring myself against the waves of sensation washing over me. He kissed me like he was trying to make up for all the times he had pushed me away, all the time he had wasted. And then, somewhere between the movements, somewhere between the desperate gasps and whispered confessions, I felt something else. Something that felt a lot like forever.

Blake’s breathing grew heavier. A soft sound slipped from his lips as his head dropped to my shoulder. “B…” he strangled out, his voice wrecked. “I—” His rhythm stuttered, and I felt the exact moment he lost control. I couldn’t stop touching him—his back, his shoulders, his face. He kissed me again, his lips parting against mine as I moaned into his mouth. It was messy and chaotic, nothing like the movies, nothing like the books.

As our breathing slowed and the heat between us began to settle into something softer, I traced lazy patterns along his back. “We’re going to tell Mom and Dad tomorrow, right?” I blurted out. “They’ll see your tattoo, and⁠—”

Blake nodded, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. “I promise.” He pulled me even closer, tucking me against him like I was something he had been trying to hold onto for years.

The way he held me—equal parts possessive and achingly tender—made me feel as if the entire world could fall away, and I would still be exactly where I was meant to be.

45

BLAKE, 1999

18 years old