She didn't care.
"For the record," she said, voice steady despite the shaking, despite the way her pussy was already clenching in nervous, greedy anticipation against his tip, "this is what wounded pride looks like."
And before he could respond—before he could tease, or laugh, or offer that devastating gentleness that had ruined her last night—Sarah sank down.
One inch.
Two.
Three.
The stretch burned fresh and bright—her sore walls protesting, fluttering, stretching taut around his thickness all over again.
"Ahhhhh... Peter~"
A broken, breathless moan tore from her throat; she didn't bother muffling it.
Fuck it.
She'd already given this man everything. Her head tipped back. Nails dug into his chest, leaving faint red crescents. Her pussy opened for him—slow, reluctant, desperately tight—every veined inch dragging against oversensitive nerves until the sound that escaped her was somewhere between agony and worship.
She didn't stop.
Deeper.
Deeper still.
