The bed creaks under the weight of a man's body. When he completely climbs over the girl's body, she bends over.

"It's okay, don't be afraid," the voice tickles your ear with warmth. Low, like the purr of a sissy in the sun. He involuntarily makes you melt, no matter how your body is shaking from acute anxiety inside.

Leon's fingers walk over your face, slide over your cheeks, his thumb presses on your lower lip, smears a thick layer of dark lipstick with an inaccurate spot. The look is languid. Blue eyes are a bottomless sea, like hypnosis, beckoning to you. Lust seethes in him, becoming more pronounced with every movement. He can't wait — he presses his mouth to your neck. In contrast to the cool humidity of kisses, chapped lips scratch and burn. Consciousness narrows down to sensations, and the image of a partner pops up before your eyes.

So bright, so much. It's so scary.

His hands cling to his broad shoulders. They're shaking. It's scary. Even if you trusted him, you knew with your mind that he wouldn't do anything wrong, and you were afraid.

"Don't worry, I'm here," he says.

Your first time. Kennedy knows this, which is why he is polite, gentle, unhurried, and devotes as much time as necessary to foreplay. Gentle circular movements on the hips focus attention on the sensations of hot hands. There is no pressure in them, only heat. It seeps through the skin, reaches the lump of icy fear inside. It's still there, but it's getting quieter, muffled by the touch. It's thawing out.

Time slows down, stretches like sticky caramel for hours of caresses. That's how it feels. It feels like long minutes pass from touch to touch – he gives you a chance to say no– but impatience, giving way to insecurity, burns you, makes you want more.

"Tell me and I'll stop," he kisses your wrist, rubs his stubbly cheek against your palm.

Not in a hurry. He's waiting. It all depends on you. Only from you.