I still remember the way my hands shook that night, sitting on the edge of my small apartment bed, the sheets cool against my bare thighs. At twenty-two, I had told myself I was ready, but the truth was I had never let anyone touch me like this before. My body had waited, through college and lonely nights, and now here was David, the man who had been patient with me for months.
He knelt in front of me, his palms warm on my knees, gently parting them. “We go slow,” he said, voice low. “You tell me when to stop.” I nodded, heart hammering, and let my robe slip from my shoulders. My breasts felt heavy, nipples already tight from the air and from his eyes on me. He kissed the inside of my thigh first, soft, open-mouthed kisses that climbed higher until his breath brushed the thin cotton of my panties.
I was wet already, embarrassingly so, the fabric clinging. When his tongue pressed there through the cotton I gasped, hips twitching. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and eased them down, exposing me completely. The first direct lick made my whole body jolt. He licked me slowly, deliberately, learning the shape of me, circling my clit until I was gripping the sheets and whispering his name.
When he slid one finger inside, I was so tight it ached at first, but he moved carefully, curling it until he found the spot that made my thighs tremble. A second finger joined, stretching me gently while his mouth stayed on my clit, sucking softly. I came for the first time with a man’s mouth on me, crying out, legs shaking around his head.
He stood then, undressing while I watched, my body still pulsing. His cock was thick, hard, the head flushed. I reached for him, wrapping my hand around the shaft, feeling it throb.
“I want you inside me,” I told him, voice steadier than I felt. He rolled on a condom and settled between my legs.
The first push was slow, careful. The stretch burned, but I breathed through it, holding his gaze. Inch by inch he filled me until he was fully seated, hips flush against mine. We stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard. Then he began to move, shallow thrusts at first, letting me adjust. Pleasure bloomed under the ache. I lifted my hips to meet him, finding the rhythm.
Soon the room was filled with the wet sound of our bodies, my soft moans, his low grunts. He angled his hips and hit something deep inside that made stars burst behind my eyes. I came again, clenching around him, and he followed with a groan, pulsing inside the condom.
Afterward he held me, stroking my hair, whispering how beautiful I was. In the weeks that followed we made love again and again, each time easier, dirtier, more confident. Nine months later I held my daughter for the first time, and every time I look at her I remember that night when my body finally learned what it had been waiting for.
