First Climax🥵🥵

The lock clicked, but the guest suite didn't feel safe. Ariana collapsed against the door, her lungs straining for air that felt too thick to breathe. The kitchen was stories below, but she could still feel the phantom heat of Mateo’s chest against her back, the terrifying, electric pressure of his hand against her stomach.

She moved toward the bed like a sleepwalker, her legs heavy and uncoordinated. She caught her reflection in the long mirror—flushed, wild-eyed, her lips stung to a dark, swollen red. She looked like a woman who had been handled, a sight that made her stomach flip with a mix of dread and a pulsing, unfamiliar heat.

"It’s just the adrenaline," she whispered, her voice a ragged ghost.

But as she lay back on the silk sheets, her mind betrayed her. For years, she had dated Tyler. Tyler was safe. He was her age, kind, and patient. When they had touched, it had been a clumsy, polite negotiation. He had never made her blood feel like it was boiling; he had never made her want to scream. She had stayed a virgin through their entire relationship, not because of a vow, but because the fire Tyler tried to start never even managed a spark. With Tyler, she felt like a girl playing a part.

With Mateo, she felt like a woman being dismantled.

She closed her eyes, and suddenly she wasn't alone. She could see him revealing the raw, possessive predator underneath. She saw the twenty-year age gap not as a barrier, but as a bridge to a darkness she had never dared to imagine.

Her hand moved of its own accord, sliding beneath the hem of her silk shorts. The touch was hesitant, her own fingers feeling foreign against her skin. She had never done this before never felt the need to. But the ache Mateo had left behind was a physical wound, a hollow, thudding craving that demanded attention.

"Mateo," she breathed, the name a sin in the quiet room.

She pictured him pinning her to the cold marble. She pictured those large, scarred surgeon’s hands—hands that held the power of life and death—wrapping around her waist. She imagined his low, gravelly command: Tell me who you belong to in the dark.

She imagined his strong hands roaming her young body, calloused fingers teasing her sensitive skin. Ariana bit her lip, stifling a moan as she pictured Mateo's intense gaze boring into hers, dark with barely restrained desire. Her hips bucked against her hand, seeking more friction, more pleasure. In her fantasy, Mateo loomed over her, muscles rippling as he slowly undressed, revealing his mature, virile form inch by tantalizing inch. Ariana's heart raced, pulse pounding between her thighs as she lost herself in the erotic daydream, chasing her rapidly building climax...

Lost in her taboo fantasies, Ariana's slender fingers delved deeper, stroking and circling her aching, dripping core. She could almost feel Mateo's presence, his masculine scent filling her nostrils, his heated breath ghosting over her neck. In her mind's eye, she saw him pinning her wrists above her head, his muscular body caging her in as he claimed her mouth in a searing kiss. Ariana whimpered needily, back arching off the bed as she plunged two fingers knuckle-deep inside her tight channel, her free hand found her breast, kneading the soft mound and rolling the pebbled nipple between her fingers.

"Mateo... please..."

The sound of his name was a confession of her own ruin. As her fingers found the center of her tension, a sharp, violent jolt shot through her, far more intense than anything Julian had ever managed with his careful, polite kisses. Her back arched off the bed, her toes curling into the duvet as her breath came in jagged, broken sobs.

She was a nurse. she knew the anatomy of pleasure. But she didn't know it could feel like this—like a seizure, like a death, like a total surrender of her soul to a man who shouldn't even be in her thoughts.

When the climax hit, it was catastrophic. A soft, muffled cry broke from her lips as her body finally buckled under the pressure he had built. It wasn't the quiet, fading hum she’d read about. It was a shattering, a loss of the girl she had been only a week ago.

As her breathing slowed, the silence of the room returned, cold and unforgiving. The heat faded, replaced by a crushing, nauseating wave of shame.

Ariana curled into a ball, pulling the covers over her head as if she could hide from the ceiling. She had just used the image of her best friend’s father—the man who called her "Nina" with a voice like a threat—to lose her innocence in the most shameful way possible.

"What is wrong with you?" she sobbed into the pillow. "He’s forty-four. He’s her father. He’s your boss."

She thought of Julian’s face—safe, boring Julian—and then she thought of Mateo’s dark, obsessive eyes. The contrast was a death sentence. She couldn't go back. She had tasted the fire, and even though it burned her, she knew the cold life she’d lived before was gone forever.

She lay there in the dark, her skin still sensitive, her mind a chaotic wreck. Tomorrow, she would have to sit at the breakfast table. She would have to look at Cami. And she would have to face the man who had just occupied her first, and most forbidden, fantasy.

Mateo hadn't even been in the room, yet he had managed to claim the one thing she’d kept for herself.