It’s been five years. My body resists… and then doesn’t. He goes slow, feeding me one inch at a time, and the stretch is overwhelming—not painful, exactly, just a lot, too much and not enough at the same time. I grab his jacket with both hands and pull, trying to bring him closer, trying to ground myself in something solid. He bites his lip as he sinks the rest of the way in until our hips meet.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, not moving. My entire body is clenched around him. I can’t breathe and I can’t think and I can’t do anything except hold onto his jacket and exist.
Then he pulls back, slow, and pushes in again. Out, then in. Out, then in. Each thrust bottoms out and, like he promised, I feel it in my spine, my teeth, the roots of my hair.
It’s nothing like anything I’ve ever
