The first time she said his given name aloud was in the barest of whispers, followed by a gasp. It didn't hurt exactly, it was more a sensation of being stretched tight, of sliding fullness.
He was all hesitant sweetness and gallantry; teasing her with butterfly touches, holding away from her in cautious concern, oblivious to what she desired of him, of what she tried to communicate with tipped hips and her searching mouth. She could feel his fear. His hands were gentle, his kisses were tender, and he was entirely without the urgency and power of that afternoon. He touched her like she was something precious and fragile. He moved within her with such concentration and care. It wasn't that she didn't like it — she did, very much — but she wanted to be stretched open and raw, to feel resounding pleasure drum through them, or barring that, to leave the encounter knowing she'd had it.
"John," she whispered, and pushed at his shoulder.
He held himself back, withdrew from her so suddenly it made her gasp. "I hurt you?"
"No," she said. "But..."
Anna had no idea how to voice what she wanted, instead she pushed again, at his hip, guided him onto his back and knelt next to him. She blushed, unsure of how to explain. The sight of him distracted her, all dark hair and pale skin, supine in the candlelight. She ran her hand over his thigh, bit her lip in shocked delight when his cock twitched. And frowned when she saw how terrified he looked.
"Would you please leave off with that this minute," she said, fixing him with a stern look, or as stern a look as she could manage given her state of complete undress. "With whatever it is that's making you touch me like it's the first time we've ever kissed."
"I don't want to..."
"Honestly, Mr. Bates. I'll tell you if you're hurting me," she said bluntly, then lowered her voice. "Have we not established that I am far stronger than I look?" Her cheeks burned, for his touch or from embarrassment, she wasn't sure. It took her a bit to work up the nerve to continue.
"Would ... would like this be alright?" she asked quietly, rising up on her knees, resting her fingertips on his stomach, feeling very naked.
John watched her raptly and gave a small nod. His breath caught, changed, quickened; she felt powerful.
He twitched again when she slid her leg over him. They shifted together, bodies silent and screaming, haltingly negotiating the space they shared. Finding the ways they fit was a strange sort of pleasure in and of itself. She pressed the wet heat of her sex to his erection, whispering her love in intimate profanities. He hushed her with kisses, but when she took him back inside of her, it was she who muffled his groans with her mouth. She could barely open her eyes from the intensity of it. And his hands - the warm width of his hands spanned her ribs, skimmed the skin of her hips while he thrust inside of her. Her thighs burned from holding herself above him, from rocking down onto him over and over again. He'd tried to stop her, tried to slow her down but she'd ignored him, and finally he gave himself over to it, came alive and feral beneath her, moving with abandon for a short stretch. It felt like they were both fighting to hold on, clawing for purchase. And for a moment she was terrified because she knew, with a sudden, sick feeling, that he would be gone soon; taken into custody. She had known in her gut for a long time. It was why she had insisted, why she had told him with determined finality what he would do, that they would be married. She was neither innocent nor naive; she knew what was coming. But with him in her arms, buried nearly painfully inside of her, she could almost ignore the juggernaut headed towards them. She could make herself forget for a night. The strangled noise he made when he came helped.