Page 46 of Shattered Trinket
We’ve waited this long, though, and I want to show her how things should have been more than I want to sink into her sweet pussy. I know when we finally take that step, when I finally get to feel her wrapped around me like I crave, it’ll be unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, but I want to give her more before I get that. I want her to experience the art of foreplay, see the depths of sexual gratification beyond my cock thrusting into her wet heat, because I know she never has, and she deserves to be worshipped in every way imaginable before I ever get the honor of slipping inside of her.
As she leans over me, her lips press against mine, and our tongues dance together in a tender embrace. I can’t stop myself from digging my fingers into her wild, untamed curls, messy from me gripping handfuls of it earlier, and when she moans into my mouth, my responding groan can’t be contained.
My need for this omega is so powerful that it eclipses my need for air. Without her love and affection, my existence feels empty and devoid of meaning, because without her, my life has no purpose. Giving her everything she deserves and more is my sole reason for still existing in this world. No matter what it takes, I’ll make sure that she lives the rest of her days surrounded by love, completely safe and being treated like the goddess she fails to realize she is.
So before I give her the first time she should have gotten—the first time she deserved—I’ll give her every other first she was robbed of or never got.
The desire to have as many of her first experiences as possible is more incessant than my desire to be buried deep inside of her, because I know that I’ll eventually have to share her with the other alphas when she’s ready, and I want to be selfish for as long as I can.
Of course, it’s not solely out of selfishness that I want to be the one with her as she experiments. I can be honest about my desperation to be the one with her as she explores, to bear witness to her discovering what she enjoys and what she doesn’t. That I’m consumed by an intense need to be the one that gets to witness the initial moment she lets go and her eyes light up in realization that everything isrightwhen that part of her is freely given to someone she wants or cares about, and not forcefully taken. That I’m eager for her to use my body to make herself feel good without worrying about if I’m taken care of, to watch her come undone as she finds release and experiences the bliss of her first orgasm.
I want to be fully present for all of that, without a doubt, but I also want to protect her from anything that might cause her to panic and subsequently feel embarrassed. I want to help her work through her fears and triggers, so when she does eventually move forward with her other alphas, she’ll be able to be with them without hesitation or anxiety. I’m okay with witnessing the fallout, with being the one that gets not only her highs but her lows if something happens that sends her flying back into the darkness, because I’ve already seen it.
I’ve witnessed the aftermath of so many of the brutal assaults she endured, seen the devastation left behind. Been there as she fractured from the constant barrage of unimaginable horrors that would break anyone’s spirit. I begged the gods to help me save her, to show me the path to her monster’s destruction, as I sat outside her prison, yearning to hold her and fix what another kept carelessly and cruelly breaking.
If Cozy crumbles, I can be her shelter, protecting her from the hurricane building inside of her. I can be her anchor, giving her the strength to hold on while keeping her steady so she can’t be blown away as the storm rages around us. I can be her lighthouse, guiding her through when it settles, reminding herthat there is a light at the end of the dark tunnel she’s walking. And when she comes out the other side, I can be her rainbow, giving her peace and clarity as she rebuilds herself.
I’m not afraid to push her a little because I can read her so easily now. Contrary to what people may believe, Cozy isn’t as delicate as glass, and she won’t shatter under pressure. She possesses an inner strength unlike anyone I’ve ever known that I deeply admire—that everyone should admire—and while I’ll always respect her boundaries, I also know when to gently encourage her to step outside her comfort zone.
When Cozy pulls back, our foreheads resting together as she keeps her eyes closed, she blows out a shaky breath. Her lashes flutter against the tops of her flushed cheeks as she works up the courage she needs for whatever it is she wants to do or ask, and I wait patiently. Several beats of my heart later, she wraps her petite fist in my shirt and tugs forcefully as her eyes open and connect with mine.
“I need you to take this off. Please.”
Gods, a man could go insane hearing that simple word fall from her lips.
I rush to yank the offending piece of fabric over my head, nearly losing my mind when her hands touch my bare chest. As her hands explore my chest, I watch her intently, taking in every breath or tiny twitch of her features and committing it all to memory. Soft fingertips dance across my defined abs and caress my sides, leaving a tingling sensation in their wake while her gaze fixates on my intricate tattoos as she gently traces the hidden scars beneath, completely enthralled.
“Beautiful,” she murmurs under her breath, glancing up at my face when she says it, and my throat feels tight.
I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me and thought I wasbeautiful.Intimidating, sure. But beautiful… That’s something I’ve never been called.
When she reaches the band of my jeans, her fingers delicately tracing the trail, I watch as her brows furrow and she bites her lip again. Pulling the abused flesh free from her teeth, I lick my bottom lip, relishing her attention on me.
“What else, Dove?” I rasp out, finding it damn near impossible to breathe with her hands on me.
She takes a deep breath and hooks her index finger around a belt loop, giving it a gentle tug and silently conveying her want for me to remove them, but I don’t move. When she realizes I don’t plan to take them off until she uses her words, she groans, face flaming the prettiest shade of red I’ve ever seen, and my cock threatens to break free of its own accord with her next words.
“Take these off, too, please.”
I let out a groan as she slowly lifts up on her knees, my fingers deftly unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans, finally granting myself a long-awaited release from the relentless pressure. I take a deep breath, savoring the sensation as I shimmy my jeans down and kick them off. Cozette’s surprised gasp and wide-eyed expression when she settles back on my thighs triggers a sudden tightening in my stomach, reminding me that I should have warned her about the lack of anything beneath the denim.
Her gaze fixated on my erection—throbbing as pre-cum dribbles from the tip—is maddening. The temptation to reach down and tightly grip the hard length, giving it a quick tug to observe her response, is nearly irresistible. However, she shocks me in the next moment before I can give in to temptation by reaching out suddenly, her finger gliding softly along the row of metal lining the underside. I feel a pleasurable shudder roll down my spine as my hands clench at my sides and I groan.
Just this slight innocent and curious touch has me on the brink of release, and I bite my cheek hard to distract myself as best as I can. The bright pink hue to her normal creamy, paleskin lets me know she’s slightly mortified at herself for having touched me so impulsively, but her eyes hold so many questions that she’s warring with herself over asking. Her curiosity eventually prevails, overshadowing her embarrassment, and it only adds to my heightened arousal as she devotes her attention to my throbbing cock.
“Do they… do they hurt?”
I bite my lip to hold in my chuckle at the question, not wanting her to think I’m laughing at her. So worried about me being in pain, my Dove.
“Not anymore.”
Her nose scrunches adorably, and when she stops touching me, I have to suppress the urge to beg her not to, reminding myself that this isn’t about me. It’s all about her, giving her the power to determine the boundaries and what she feels at ease with.
“They feel good for you?”
I give her a nonchalant shrug when she shyly glances back at my face.
“In a way. They increase the sensations, make me a little more sensitive.”