The spasm.
Her whole body.
The full-system, involuntary, everything-at-once convulsion of a first orgasm arriving not like she'd imagined it — which had been something polite and warm and gradual — but like a wall collapsing, like a tide that had been held back by a dam made of inexperience finally finding the structural flaw and going 'through.'
Her legs locked.
Her fingers locked.
Her inner walls locked — gripping, pulsing, clenching in stuttering, rhythmic waves around him while she made sounds that she would never be able to repeat voluntarily because she hadn't been the one making them, exactly, her body had, while she was occupied.
He groaned.
Deep. Genuine. The sound of a man who has found the specific combination and is feeling the tumblers fall.
He slammed deep into her and 'stayed' — held at maximum depth while she convulsed — and then the pulse of him, the thick, flooding throb, the scalding rush of something filling her at a depth that had never been filled—
