#ohhoney

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “We don’t have to do anything. You can put your clothes back on and we can watch a movie and I can pretend I don’t have the worst hard-on of my life. Totally fine option.”

You shook your head once. “I want to. I just… haven’t.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Haven’t…?”

“Anything,” you said, quiet. “Not even… you know. Hands. Mouth. Nothing.”

He went still for a second. Then he exhaled through his nose, slow.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Then we go at your pace. You say stop, we stop. You say slower, we go slower. You say ‘Steve I need a second,’ I give you the second. Deal?”

You nodded.

He stood, stripped his own shirt off, and sat beside you instead of looming over you. He kissed you again, soft, unhurried, until your mouth opened under his and your hands finally left the sheets to touch his chest. When he felt you relax a little, he guided you back against the pillows and stretched out next to you, one leg thrown over yours, body warm and solid.

His mouth moved to your jaw, your throat, the place under your ear that made your breath hitch. His hand stayed on your waist, thumb stroking skin, not pushing lower until you arched into him without thinking.

“Still good?” he murmured against your collarbone.

“Yeah.”

He took his time with your chest, mouth and tongue and the careful scrape of teeth, until your hips started rolling up without your permission. Only then did he slip his fingers under the waistband of your jeans and wait.

You nodded.

He worked them down, then your underwear, slow enough that you could change your mind at any second. When you were bare he just looked for a moment, eyes dark, and said, “Fuck, you’re pretty,” like it was a fact and not a line.

His hand slid up the inside of your thigh. When his fingers brushed between your legs you jumped; he stilled completely until you settled, then traced you carefully, learning the shape of you, the places that made your breath catch. He didn’t push inside yet. Just circled, rubbed, watched your face like it was the only thing that mattered.

When you were wet enough that his fingers slid easily, he pressed one in slow, just the tip at first, then deeper when you didn’t flinch. Your eyes squeezed shut.

“Look at me,” Steve said softly. You did. He held your gaze while he worked that single finger in and out, patient, until the stretch stopped feeling strange and started feeling good. A second finger joined the first only when you were pushing down onto his hand, chasing more.

He kissed you through it, deep, messy kisses while his fingers curled and found the spot that made your thighs tremble. When you came the first time it was quiet and sharp, your whole body going tight around his hand, and Steve kept moving through it, talking low against your mouth the whole time 

“That’s it, just like that, you’re doing so good-”.

He didn’t rush to get inside you after. He waited until your breathing evened out, until you reached for his belt yourself. He let you push his jeans and boxers down. Let you look. Let you touch him with curious, slightly shaky hands until he had to catch your wrist and groan into your neck.

“Condom,” he said, voice rough, and reached for the nightstand. He rolled it on, then settled between your legs again, braced on his forearms so he wasn’t crushing you.

The head of his cock pressed against you. He didn’t push yet.

“Still with me?”

“Yes.”

He eased in an inch, then stopped. Your body was tight, really tight, and the stretch burned. Steve’s jaw was clenched, arms shaking with the effort of holding still.

“Breathe,” he said. “I’ve got you. We can stop.”

You shook your head and breathed out. He sank in another inch, then another, until he was buried to the hilt and both of you were breathing hard. He stayed like that, forehead pressed to yours, giving you time to adjust around the thick, unfamiliar pressure.

When the burn faded into something hotter, you rolled your hips experimentally. Steve made a broken sound and started moving, slow, deep strokes that never quite left you empty. He watched your face the entire time, adjusting angle when your breath hitched the right way, slowing when your nails dug into his shoulders, kissing the soft sounds out of your mouth.

It didn’t last long. You were too new, too sensitive, and the way he filled you kept dragging you toward another edge. When you came the second time it pulled him with you, Steve’s rhythm stuttering, hips pressing deep as he groaned your name against your throat and spilled into the condom.

He stayed inside you afterward, careful not to crush you, one hand stroking your hair while both of you came down. Eventually he pulled out slow, dealt with the condom, and came back with a warm washcloth. He cleaned you up without making it weird, then pulled the covers over both of you and tugged you against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked into your hair.

You nodded against his collarbone. Your body felt used in the best way, sore, open, still twitching with aftershocks.

Steve kissed the top of your head.

“Next time,” he said quietly, “we can go slower. Or faster. Or I can just use my mouth until you can’t think. Whatever you want. No rush.”

You believed him.

For the first time, being a virgin didn’t feel like something you had to hide. It just felt like the start of something Steve was more than willing to take his time with.