We lie on the bed, wrapped in the soft twilight of the room, our naked bodies still trembling from what just happened. The air is thick with the sweet, heady scent of intimacy—warm, slightly musky, like a mix of perfume and the touch of souls. It's the smell of passion, sincerity, and something deeper than mere physical union.
Our hearts beat in unison, loud but gradually calming, like they're tired after a long run. My chest still buzzes with exhilaration—restless, triumphant, like the sea after a storm: already quiet but still alive, raging beneath the surface, unwilling to settle completely.
"Ahem… So, you're a virgin?" Her voice is hoarse, trembling slightly, as if every word has to push through a veil of exhaustion and pleasure. Her lips barely move, but her eyes spark with disbelief and tender mockery. Her gaze is hazy, blurred from bliss, yet it clings to mine, as if afraid to let go.
I laugh—light, free, and it floods me with relief. The laughter is bright and genuine, like a child's. As if a mountain pressing on my shoulders dissolves without a trace.
"Before you—I was. But not for the last ten minutes." I grin playfully, my eyes glinting with warmth and mischief.
Rolling onto my side, I slowly trail my fingers down her stomach—warm, barely quivering with each breath. Its smoothness feels almost unreal—silken, velvety, as if her skin knows it is made to be touched, to be worshipped.
Now, I'm completely at ease, unafraid to touch her. The last traces of hesitation, insecurity, fear of doing something wrong—gone. My body no longer obeys logic—only feeling, only instinct, only the need to be closer. Every touch feels natural, as if I've always known her, as if my fingers are meant to memorize her curves, every dip, every line.
Katrin squints, the corners of her lips twitching into a smile, and her fingers brush my shoulder uncertainly, as if she herself can't believe this is real. This is something new—not just physical union, but an indescribable sense of belonging. She—Rebel Girl who drives me mad with just a glance, the one I can't resist—now lies beside me, disheveled, exhausted, and breathtakingly beautiful. The one who used to be an unreachable dream, a fire I feared to touch. I see her now—not just with my body, but with my soul. In every movement, every glance, there is something that used to escape me: vulnerability, tenderness, warmth. And she no longer hides. No longer pushes away. No longer shields herself.
Mine. And I am hers. Now, she's mine. Not as property, not as a trophy—but as something priceless, entrusted to me, something I must cherish, protect, love. And I am hers. Completely. Without doubt. Without masks or pretense. It doesn't need words—it's in our breathing, our heartbeats, the way my chest tightens when our eyes meet.
This realization sinks deep into my soul, filling me with warmth, like a sip of strong wine—bitter, sweet, intoxicating. The world shrinks to the edges of this bed, this gaze, these touches. Nothing else exists. Just her. Just us. Just this inexplicable feeling, like magic.
And it means we belong to each other. Fully. Irrevocably. Like sky and earth, fire and air. There's something sacred in this simplicity, as if the universe pauses for a moment to acknowledge our bond. I don't care what happens tomorrow. Right now—she's mine. And I'm hers. And in this moment, that's all that matters.
"Sweetheart, want me to get you water?" I ask, looking at her with tender concern, knowing full well that after all her moans, gasps, and cries, her throat must be parched, like a sun-scorched field.
She doesn't answer—just gives a faint nod, and in that lazy, effortless motion, there is so much exhausted but utterly genuine affection that something inside me trembles. I want to cover her with my body, shield her from the world, hold her tight and never let go. She looks fragile, like fine porcelain, yet beneath that softness lies strength—my Rebel, her fire now barely smoldering, but I know one breath could make it blaze again.
"Stay, I'll be right back." I lean down and press my lips to her stomach. The kiss is light, like a breeze over still water. It holds everything: gratitude, love, awe, a promise to stay close.
I get up and head to the kitchen, not bothering with clothes. Naked, exposed, real. And I don't care. After what just happens between us, shame dissolves like smoke over a dying fire at dawn. It simply doesn't exist anymore. My body still burns—not just from physical heat, but from the emotional, almost spiritual fever lingering after the storm we drown in together.
Every step sends a pleasant ache through me—a reminder of what we share. My skin still carries the memory of her touch, her lips, her nails. It's all a part of me now, etched somewhere deep inside.
This isn't just sex. Not an act, not technique, not what books or movies describe. To me, sex always sounds crude, flat—something mechanical, soulless. But what happens between us… it is sacred. Something you can't explain, only feel. It is love in its purest, rawest, truest form. We don't just touch each other—we enter each other, not with bodies but with hearts. Dissolved. Disappeared, just to become one, if only for a moment. And in that moment, I realize: I don't just love her.
I belong to her.
Completely.
When I return with a glass of water, her gaze pierces right through me—wide, startled eyes staring as if seeing me for the first time. Everything is in them—embarrassment, wonder, something primal, almost feral. Her cheeks burn with a blush so vivid it seems you'd get scorched if you touched them. Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something, but the words lodge somewhere between her ribs and throat.
Katrin clearly hasn't expected to see me like this. So free. So confident. So… naked—not just in body, but in spirit. Because not long ago, I shyly averted my eyes, stumbled over my words, turned red just walking out in shorts like a schoolboy caught mid-mischief. But now—I stand before her exactly as I am, with a lazy smirk, shoulders relaxed, warmth in my gaze, not a trace of hesitation.
And I think it drives her insane.
I take a step closer. She squirms on the bed, sitting up, the blanket pulled to her chin like a shield—either from my eyes or her own thoughts. Her fingers clutch the fabric so tightly her knuckles whiten. But there is no fear in her gaze. Something else burns there—hungry curiosity, quiet admiration, mixed with a hint of that playful defiance that usually lives in her words but now simmers in silence.
I run my hand through her hair, still damp with sweat and heat. Then lean down, pressing my lips to her forehead—a featherlight kiss, warm, enveloping, like wrapping yourself in a blanket after a long journey.
Rebel Girl doesn't respond—just clings to the glass I hand her, drinking in greedy gulps, as if quenching more than thirst. As if trying to douse a fire inside herself. The sound of her swallowing is loud, almost indecent in the quiet room. Like she isn't just cooling her throat but her thoughts, her pulse, her skin—which might be burning even hotter than before.
"Want more?" I watch thin trails of water slide down her chin, her neck, vanishing under the blanket.
She shakes her head sharply, almost awkwardly, and I take my time pouring myself water. Inside, I burn too—differently, but just as fiercely. I drink fast, greedy, savoring it, as if swallowing the last remnants of doubt.
And she… just sits there. Still gripping the blanket, but no longer hiding—watching. Openly. A little brazenly. With that look that always steals my breath. Her eyes trace my shoulders, chest, stomach—slow, deliberate, like she is memorizing me. Cheeks flushed, teeth worrying her lip, trying to hide what is already laid bare.
And in that gaze, I read everything: shame, scorching want, admiration she refuses to voice. And something else… something that makes my chest tighten sweetly.
I think she is flustered by my nakedness.
Not out of modesty, not out of sudden propriety—but because there is nothing left between us now. No clothes. No barriers. No masks.
"Something wrong?" I ask, finishing the water, feeling the cold slide down my throat even as heat still coils inside me.
She snorts and looks away, as if my question is ridiculous. But I see it—the faintest twitch at the corner of her lips. Almost imperceptible. Almost shy. But there.
My little hellion.
So sharp-tongued on the outside—with smiles that could cut glass.
So soft, so defenseless—when we're alone. When she doesn't have to pretend.
"No, it's fine," she whispers, voice fragile as a snowflake about to melt on skin.
"Then why are you hiding under the blanket like you're trying to disappear?" I chuckle, setting the empty glass on the nightstand. I sit on the edge of the bed, watching her curl tighter, as if willing herself smaller.
"I'm… embarrassed." The words are barely audible, but a storm rages in them.
I laugh. Not loudly. Not mockingly. Warm, affectionate, laced with gentle disbelief—the kind reserved for someone you love showing you a side they have never revealed.
"You? Embarrassed? Since when?" I tilt my head. "Usually, you're the fearless one. And now…"
It genuinely surprises me. In the best way. Because in her vulnerability isn't weakness—it is truth. Raw, alive, pulsing under the skin. The kind you can't fake. The kind that bares the soul deeper than any touch.
Katrin clenches the blanket tighter, as if it could shield her from my gaze, from her own exposure, from the terrifying newness of this closeness. Her breath hitches—short, uneven. A quiet sigh escapes her lips, like she is fighting herself.
I watch, unmoving, letting her have this moment. Letting her be real. Maybe for the first time ever.
"Hey…" My voice softens, careful, like coaxing a wild thing. My hand covers hers—warm, steady. I don't try to pull the blanket away. I just stay.
She flinches at my touch but doesn't pull back. If anything, she relaxes—just a fraction. Her grip on the fabric loosens, ever so slightly.
"You don't have to be brave every second," I murmur. "Not with me. You can show me any part of yourself. Even the scared one. Even the shy one. Because I'm not here for your strength. I'm here for you."
Her lashes flutter, butterfly wings about to take flight. I see the war inside her—pride, stubborn independence, and this new, fragile thing: trust. Delicate as glass, but… already real.
"You really mean that?" So quiet, like she fears the answer.
I lean closer, forehead nearly touching hers.
"I don't just mean it. I feel it. In every cell. Every heartbeat. You could be any version of yourself—and I'd still love you."
And then—her fingers uncurl. The blanket slips just enough to bare her shoulders. She doesn't discard it entirely, but she lets me see more. And in that small surrender is more honesty than any confession.
She lets me in. Really in.
"I just… feel awkward," she exhales, the words dragged out like a confession worse than standing naked before a crowd.
Something glimmers in her eyes—not fear, not shame. Timidity. The kind that comes when you realize just how vulnerable you've become. How much you've laid bare. How much you've given.
As if, for the first time, she truly understands—not with her body, but her soul—how close we've become. Close enough for a careless word to cut like a knife. Close enough for roles and masks to crumble. Until it's just us. Real.
"Alright. I won't drag you out of there," I shrug, smiling as she burrows deeper. If the blanket is her comfort, so be it. Her world. Her safe place.
I sit on the edge of the bed, still feeling the heat of her gaze on my skin.