Dante positioned himself at her entrance, his breathing harsh and unsteady, and he could see his own conflict reflected in her eyes.
The need warring with the fear that he'd lose himself completely, that he'd take too much, that even sober he wouldn't be able to stop once he started.
Last time he'd had the excuse of alcohol. This time he had nothing.
"Dante," she whispered, her hand coming up to cup his face. "It's okay."
Something in his chest cracked open at her soft words and he stopped second guessing everything.
He pushed into her slowly, his jaw clenching with the effort of holding himself back, and the sensation nearly undid him.
She was tight and warm and perfect, and he could feel every inch of her wrapped around him with a clarity that made his vision blur.
She gasped at the stretch, at the fullness, and his eyes locked on her face, watching every flicker of sensation that crossed her features.
He wanted to remember this.
All of it.
