He pushed forward.
Excruciatingly slow... and it was the most deliberate, merciless claiming Roxanne has ever felt.
The broad, flushed crown—angry plum, slick with the mingled evidence of her worship—pressed against her weeping entrance. Roxanne's outer petals, already plump and darkly flushed from hours of aching need, began to yield in slow, obscene surrender.
The massive head forced those pink pentals apart wider and wider until the delicate flesh stretched into a shining, paper-thin ring of strained scarlet that clung to him like a second skin, trembling on the edge of breaking.
Her breath shattered.
Her eyes flew open, huge and glassy.
Her mouth dropped in a silent, perfect O of shock as the head began to breach her.
The moment of entry was pure, profane poetry.
