After coming to college, I realized I was the only virgin in my class. I grew up in a conservative Christian family. Before I left home, my mother warned me: “A woman’s first time must be with her husband on their wedding night.” So, even though the girls around me mocked me, and even though I craved freedom, I couldn’t break free from those chains. That is, until Adam stormed into my life like a wild beast. He’s my neighbor—eight-pack abs, tousled curly hair. Damn it… and he’s packing 8.5 inches! It had only been two months since I left home for college, but it felt like a lifetime of changes had hit me all at once. All my new friends had boyfriends. They loved sharing their sex stories. One of them smirked, “He teases with his fingers, circling slow, barely brushing your clit until you’re trembling and gasping for more. Then he pins your wrists above your head, pushes in deep and hard, each thrust hitting just right…” “God, the way he claims you with that huge, powerful cock… “The climax hits like a wave breaking over you, pulling you under in the most beautiful way.” The room filled with their soft laughs and knowing smiles. I sat curled in the armchair, knees hugged to my chest, listening without a word. Heat pooled low in my belly, a secret ache that throbbed with every detail they shared. I bit my lip hard. I’d never been touched like that. Never felt a guy’s weight pressing me down, never known the slide of bare skin or that breathless surrender. I was still a virgin, untouched, unsure— but my body betrayed me, craving hands that weren’t there, lips I’d never tasted. The thought scared me and thrilled me in equal measure. I wanted it. I wanted to feel that unraveling, to be wanted that fiercely. Then one night at a party, everything shifted. I’d been hovering on the edges, unsure how to fit in, when I met Brad. He was gorgeous, charming, and this was his house. We talked for a while. Then he offered to give me a tour. The look in his eyes told me the tour wasn’t the point. My heart raced. Part of me wanted to stay safe in the crowd. But I pushed that voice down. This was the first step toward what I secretly craved. “Sure,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. He took my hand the second we left the main room and led me upstairs. His touch sent sparks across my skin. My whole body hummed with anticipation. No tour. He brought me straight to his bedroom. The door clicked shut. Before I could catch my breath, his mouth was on mine—hot, hungry, certain. My eyes widened, but then I melted into it. God, it felt so good. He guided me to the bed. I lay back. He followed, covering me with his warmth. His kisses deepened. His hand slipped under my top, palm flat against my bare stomach. Everything was happening fast. Too fast. My pulse thundered. Then his hand slid higher, cupping my breast through my bra. Pleasure shot through me, sharp and dizzying. Panic followed right after. I sat up quickly. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice gentle. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “It’s just… moving a little fast for me. Can we slow down?” “Of course,” he said, and I felt a rush of gratitude. He kissed me again, softer this time. But soon his body pressed closer, his thigh sliding between mine. I felt his hard, insistent thing pushing against me. Heat flooded me. Desire and fear twisted tight in my chest. I froze again.
This time, he wasn’t as patient. The mood shattered. I could feel it slip away like smoke. Disappointment stung, but something else woke up inside me, something hungry. That night, alone in the dark, I kept replaying it. What if I’d swallowed the fear and just let go? I pictured him slowly peeling my clothes away. I’d be shy no matter how hard I tried to hide it. I imagined his eyes drinking me in, my body trembling under his gaze, desperate for that look that says I’m beautiful, I’m wanted. Then he’d strip off his own shirt. God, I wanted to see him bare. When we kissed, I’d felt the hard lines of his chest under my palms. I wondered how perfect he’d look completely naked—every muscle, every inch of skin. I imagined his mouth trailing down my body, hot and slow, kissing every sensitive place until I felt like I was blooming open, coming alive under his lips. I thought about his tongue on me, lower, softer, teasing the most secret parts until I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to taste him too. Wanted to wrap my hand around him, feel how thick and warm he’d be, how he’d pulse against my palm. I wondered how it would feel when he finally pushed inside, slow at first, then deep, filling me completely. That night, frustration burned through me. I slid my hand between my thighs for the first time ever. They always said it was wrong. Dirty. Forbidden. But the second my fingers brushed over that slick heat, I understood why people break rules. It felt incredible. The naughtiness only made it hotter. I bit my lip to keep the moans inside as I circled, then slipped a finger in. So good, but I knew it would be a thousand times better when it wasn’t just me. That was the night everything changed. The night I discovered pleasure I’d only dreamed about. After that, I got bolder. Guys started noticing. I kissed a few, let hands wander, waited for the spark that felt right. None of them quite did. So two months in, I was still a virgin. But I wasn’t scared anymore. I was ready. I just needed the right moment. When it came, it was going to be electric. One Saturday the weather turned gorgeous, with warm sun, blue sky. I felt alive. There was a party that night. I kept whispering to myself: Maybe tonight. Maybe this is the night. Even if it wasn’t, I’d still have fun. I wandered the city, loving how every street could surprise me. I crossed the park and ended up in a new neighborhood—artsy, alive. Murals splashed across brick walls. Cute little boutiques I couldn’t afford. I told myself to keep walking. Then I turned a corner and stopped dead. A mural—half-finished, vibrant, wild. And the artist was still up there on the scaffold. I couldn’t look away. The way he moved, confident, focused, brush in hand—it was mesmerizing. Then—clatter. A paintbrush slipped from his fingers. I flinched. It missed me, hit the ground, and a few drops of blue splashed onto my calf. He glanced down. Our eyes locked. “Oh shit,” he called. “I’m so sorry! Did I get you?” “No, you missed me,” I laughed, heart tripping. “Just a little splash on my leg.” “Hang on, I’m coming down.” He moved fast, sure-footed on the ladder. When he hit the pavement, I finally saw him properly. Tall. Athletic. Deep tan that screamed time in the sun. Sandy-blonde hair brushing his ears, a few silver threads catching the light. Dark green eyes that pinned me in place. Damn. “Hi,” he said, gaze sliding over me. I felt my cheeks heat. “I’m really sorry. I’m George.” “Ella.” “Ella.” He smiled slow and warm. “Let’s see the damage.” It took me a second. Then I turned, showing him the streak of blue on my leg. He made a low sound. “What a shame, ruining legs like that. You can’t walk around covered in paint. Come on—let me clean you up.” “Oh, you don’t have to—” “It’s no trouble. This is my house.” He nodded toward the door behind the mural. I blinked. “Really?” “Really. I don’t usually paint other people’s walls.” His grin was teasing. I smiled back. “Okay. Why not?” He led me inside. The place was pure artist—every surface covered in beautiful chaos. Canvases stacked against walls, shelves crammed with odd treasures, sunlight pouring through big windows. I could’ve spent hours just staring. And the whole time, I felt his eyes on me. Warm. Curious. Wanting.
“Come on,” George said. “Let’s go through to the kitchen.” I followed him and sat on the chair he pulled out for me. “This is a nice place,” I said, glancing around the big, bright kitchen. “Must be pretty expensive.” “It is,” he admitted. “But I don’t live here alone. I have a housemate. He’s out right now, but he’ll be back later.” “Ah, got it.” He grabbed a wet rag from beside the sink and ran it under the tap. I started to reach for it, thinking I’d clean my leg myself, but then he dropped to his knees in front of me. I looked down at him, my pulse already quickening. He wrapped his fingers around my ankle. The touch felt electric, intimate in a way I hadn’t expected. No one had ever held me there before. Did he know that? Of course not. But he did it so easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He smiled up at me. Then the cool cloth touched my skin, and I shivered. His pressure was gentle, careful. Having him on his knees like this, tending to me, felt dangerously close. I couldn’t look away. “There you go,” he murmured. “All done.” He stayed down there. Our eyes locked. The air between us thickened, charged. He took my ankle again and lifted my leg just a little. “All clean now,” he whispered. Then he leaned in and brushed his lips against the spot he’d just wiped. My heart stumbled. I stared at him, breathless. He wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t rushing. He seemed to know exactly how to touch me, how to make me want more without saying a word. Another kiss, higher, at my knee. My dress had slipped, baring more skin. Then one soft press of his mouth to the outside of my thigh. A voice in my head whispered I should stop him. I told it to shut up. He let go of my ankle and stood. For a second I thought the moment had slipped away. Disappointment hit me hard. But then he took both my hands and pulled me up. “What do you say?” he asked, voice low. I couldn’t speak. I just looked at him, waiting. He cupped my chin, tilting my face to his. My heart pounded. He leaned down slowly. His lips brushed mine, teasing, finding the perfect fit. Then his tongue slipped past my parted lips, meeting mine in a slow, hungry dance. One hand stayed on my face, thumb stroking my cheek. The other settled at my waist, pulling me closer. I reached up. My fingers grazed the stubble on his jaw. My other hand pressed against his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. The kiss deepened, heat building like a slow fire. His hand on my waist guided me back until the edge of the table pressed into me. No escape. I didn’t want one. I pushed into him. Our bodies fit together perfectly—his strength against my softness. He felt solid, powerful. Every shift of his muscles sent sparks through me. Then he eased back, just enough to look at me. He took my hands again, squeezed them, and smiled. I smiled back, suddenly shy. I glanced away, then back, biting my lip. This was different. No alarms going off in my head. No urge to pull away. All those old fears were gone. I felt free. Alive. A little scared—and that only made it better. We both wanted this. I was ready to fall into whatever came next.
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