18+ | Eva French relocates from sunny Florida to the gritty streets of Detroit, seeking a fresh start. But her new beginning takes a dark turn when she experiences a traumatic assault on her very first night in the city. Haunted by the incident, Eva...
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Eva French
The room was filled with a serene stillness, broken only by the gentle rhythm of our breathing. I could feel the warmth of his skin against mine, the lingering echo of our shared passion still palpable in the air.
In anticipation of our first intimate moment, my thoughts had fixated solely on the act itself, leaving no room for consideration of what might follow. While his arms offered a peaceful sanctuary, my thoughts raced ceaselessly. Being enveloped in his arms had allowed me to feel a sense of safety where I could let down my guard, yet my mind would not let me enjoy the moment fully.
In stark contrast to how I was feeling, he seemed entirely at ease. He lounged confidently, his body on display without inhibition or any hint of self-consciousness. His legs stretched out casually, beads of sweat tracing the contours of his skin, accentuating the chiselled lines of his abdomen. Disregarded sheets lay abandoned, tossed aside and forgotten, lost somewhere on the floor beside the bed.
A deep blush crept across my cheeks as I peered down at his naked body. I observed his arousal, which had just been inside me moments ago in silent awe. Now softened, its girth slightly reduced from its previous state, it still held traces of moisture glistening on its surface, while faint veins ran along its length.
The temptation to reach out and touch it stirred within me, though it wasn't solely driven by sexual impulse. I knew it was a strange desire, driven by an inexplicable need to be as close to him as possible. This was the most intimate and vulnerable part of him, and somehow, in my foggy state of mind, I felt that touching it in a non-sexual manner would offer the ultimate closeness I could achieve with him.
His experience, compared to my lack thereof, only intensified this feeling. It was as if I were suddenly thrust into a race, scrambling to measure up to an undefined standard. What was this standard? I couldn't pinpoint it exactly, yet I felt an overwhelming desire to be with him in a way that would eclipse any previous connection or relationship he had ever known. I wanted to immerse myself completely in him and feel, see, touch, taste, and experience every part of him that I could.
I wondered how many women had laid beside him after sex, just like we were now. And I wondered if any of them felt the way I did. How many loved him, and did he love any in return? Had any of them felt the same as me? How many of them had been comfortable enough to touch him in a moment like this? A lot? Or none at all? If none at all, I wanted to be the first.
Before I could act on my impulse and embarrass myself, he spoke, his voice a comforting anchor amid my swirling thoughts.
"Are you okay? How are you feeling?"
His question was a welcomed distraction from the intimate scrutiny of his body and the pang of jealousy simmering in the back of my throat at the thought of his past lovers.
"I'm okay," I replied, my shyness lingering. It was frustrating as much as it was irrational to feel this way, considering everything we had just done.
"Was it okay for you?" he inquired after a few moments of silence, a hint of concern coloring his voice.
