Page 429 of Ruthless Court

It’s so good it borders on overwhelming.

He works me until I’m wet and open and trembling on the edge, then lifts his head. His mouth is shiny. His eyes are dark.

“It’s going to hurt, baby,” he says quietly. “I’m bigger than most men.”

I already know. I’ve felt him against my hip, against my palm, against every place we’ve gotten close without crossing this line.

“I know. You’re six-four. Basketball player.”

A tiny smile touches his mouth. “I’ll stretch you out the best I can. And if you want to stop, we stop. Immediately.”

“I know.”

I sit up and push at his waistband. He helps me, lifting his hips so I can slide the pants and boxers down. His cock springs free—thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip. I wrap both hands around him and feel the wetness of pre-cum already beading there.

Kane’s breath leaves him in a rush.

“Hannah, baby.” His voice is wrecked. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted you so bad for weeks.”

I stroke him once, watching his eyes flutter shut, then lie back. He follows, turning me fully onto the mattress, settling between my legs. I wrap them around his hips without being asked. He braces on one forearm and uses the other hand to guide the blunt head of his cock through my folds, coating himself, teasing.

In.

Out.

In.

Just the tip.

Each time he pushes a little deeper and retreats, giving me time to adjust to the stretch. His mouth drops to my breast again, sucking one nipple while his fingers gently pluck the other. The dual sensation makes me moan and tilt my hips up, chasing more of him.

“Just hold on to me,” he whispers.

I lock my arms around his shoulders.

He looks straight into my eyes—no looking away, no hiding—and pushes forward in one slow, continuous slide.

The stretch burns.

It fills me so completely I forget how to breathe for a second.

It hurts in the exact way people warn about, and at the same time it feels so right I could cry.

Kane stays still once he’s buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to mine, arms shaking with the effort of not moving.

“Breathe, baby.”

I do.

The burn eases into something hotter, fuller, better. I shift experimentally and we both groan.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yes.” My voice is barely sound. “Move.”

He does.

Slow at first—long, careful strokes that let me feel every inch of him. His eyes never leave mine. Every time he bottoms out he grinds just a little, rubbing against places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyelids. My hands stay in his hair, on his shoulders, sliding down the flexing muscles of his back.