The Construct Of Love: Chapter 5
This is a polished draft from my debut novel, The Construct Of Love. Final version may differ.
Put. It. In! (Working Title)
Chapter 5, 5th Edit
The way his tongue dances with hers—graceful, fluid, and just the right amount of pressure—fuels Clarissa’s wild craving for Pascal. There’s a hint of sweetness in his breath, fresh and clean, without a trace of morning coffee.
It’s impossible. And wonderful.
She presses into him—hard—climbing on top as her lips devour his mouth. She kisses him deeper, sliding her body against his like she’s starving and he’s the last bite.
Pascal moves to her earlobe, grazing it with his teeth, then drags his hands slowly down her back, tracing the curve of her waist. When his fingers find the bare skin just above her waistband, something ignites deep inside her.
Clarissa grabs his hand and pushes it down her sweat pants.
He moves with seamless confidence, gliding past her tailbone, over the soft curve of her backside, and between her cheeks. She holds her breath, the old voice in her head whispering she’s not ready, not groomed, not beautiful enough for this.
It doesn’t matter.
Pascal’s fingers find her. Her untrimmed garden. Her real body.
His touch is neither rough nor delicate—it's something else entirely.
Intentional. Erotic.
Gush.
Clarissa is swimming in sensuality.
His fingers stroke her gently, then deeper, circling, teasing. Just enough. Barely inside. The sensation blooms like a fire lit under water.
She gasps, gripping his shoulders, allowing shame to dissolve into vapor.
Then she catches herself. She’s too wet. Too eager. Too open.
She turns her face, hiding behind her hair, suddenly feeling small inside the pleasure.
Pascal gently lifts her chin. “Don’t let yourself do that.”
His voice is warm and terrifying—like a bartender who becomes a priest.
“It’s right to enjoy this.”
Those words unlock something. Clarissa exhales, releases the last of her hesitation, and lets herself fall into pure, unfiltered desire.
It’s ok to be.
She pushes her hips against him, lets him in, lets him feel all of her. His fingers move like they’ve known her body longer than she has. He touches her like a memory she forgot she had.
Her heart thunders. It’s not just arousal—it’s recognition.
And then, without warning, Pascal lifts her in his arms and lays her flat.
In one motion, her sweats and underwear are gone.
She tears at his shirt, impatient, frustrated. It rips slightly. Pascal peels it off and tosses it aside, revealing his body again.
It looks different now, but the same.
His body feels perfect—smooth, symmetrical, firm, like it was impossibly designed for her.
Clarissa kisses his chest, his neck, presses her cheek to his abdomen.
Her face brushes warm skin, her fingers splay across his back.
She wants to dissolve into him.
He strips her shirt away—almost barbarically. She flinches but doesn’t stop him.
His strength is captured by a powerful tenderness.
He kisses her neck again, her collarbone, then moves to her breasts.
He cups them. Kisses one nipple, then the other.
His mouth is soft, exact. The way he touches her makes her feel born again.
She arches her back. She can barely breathe.
It can’t be this good. Can it?
Clarissa reaches for his waist, fumbling to free him. She has to have him.
Pascal’s jeans slide off and she stares—drawn instantly to the full, rigid length of his phallus.
It’s beautiful.
Smooth, veined, firm—its head glistening slightly. She traces a fingertip along the underside, marveling at the heat, the pulse, the presence of it.
His expression is almost innocent.
Is this his first time?
Before she can finish the thought, Pascal moves between her legs. His engorged head presses softly against her soaked entrance. He kisses her once more— delicately focused.
And then—
He doesn’t move.
He just stays there. Hovering.
Why won’t he put it in?
Just put it in.
Put. It. In!
She wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulls at him, presses her hands to his back, her hips tilting up. Every inch of her is pleading.
And then—
He does.
One slow, seamless slide inside. No resistance. No stopping.
Clarissa cries out. Her body seizes, then melts.
It’s so goddamn good.
He begins to move—long, rhythmic thrusts that send shockwaves through her. Deep. Precise.
Like he knows exactly what she needs and how to give it.
An orgasm starts building almost immediately.
Too soon. Too much.
It’s overwhelming.
“Only you,” he whispers.
A symphonic hum.
The words sink into her like a command. A benediction.
And she believes him and exhales his name like a prayer.
She wraps her legs around him. Her breathing turns to gasps, then moans, then noises she’s never made before. Her hands grip his shoulders, then his
back, then anywhere she can hold onto to stay tethered to reality.
He shifts her legs up and over his shoulders.
She’s completely open now—folded, bare, exposed.
A flicker of panic. What if she farts? What if she ruins it?
Then he thrusts again.
And everything disappears.
Pleasure consumes Clarissa.
She becomes more than herself.
She’s light. She’s electricity. She clings to him like he’s a lifeline and a curse.
She cries out.
Moans. Howls. It’s animal.
It’s sacred.
It’s insane.
Clarissa grips his back, scratches at his skin, sobs into his shoulder.
Another orgasm, smaller but layered.
Her body tightens around him, pulsing, dragging him deeper into her.
Clarissa has never felt more alive.
Pascal keeps moving.
Slower now.
Like he’s memorizing her from the inside out.
She watches him—dazed, smiling.
She wants him to finish. Needs him to.
It ’s not complete until he does.
His body stiffens. Then softens.
A breath escapes his lips—half-moan, half-sigh—and he collapses against her, his head on her chest.
Clarissa strokes his hair, staring up at the ceiling and smiles.
He’s mine.
Out of the sky and into her heart.
Click. The front door unlocks. Opens.
Clarissa softly chuckles.
To think she used to be shy at the beach.
Footsteps.
Delphine walks in and freezes.
Nervous thoughts of what might be pushed her home early.
She sniffs the air.
Sniffs again.
Delphine walks into the living room. Stops.
There, on the couch: Clarissa, naked, beaming.
Pascal’s head resting on her breasts.
His bare side catching the afternoon light like a fucking renaissance sculpture.
Clarissa smiles sweetly and waves.
Delphine throws her arms in the air.
“Oh, come on!”