I lift my eyes to his, and that curve of his mouth—the faint, dangerous smile—pulls me in completely. His hand tilts my chin, lifting my face to his.
Our lips meet, soft at first, tentative. The kiss lingers, delicate and uncertain, like we’re both testing the edges of something neither of us can name yet.
Then something shifts. A subtle groan vibrates through him, and I feel the heat in his chest, in the grip of his hands. His lips press harder, firmer, claiming, and I respond instinctively, tilting into him, letting my fingers thread through his hair.
The kiss deepens, urgent now, desperate. It’s not gentle anymore; it’s need and tension, the release of hours, days, maybe even years of wanting—of fear, of adrenaline, of wanting to feel safe in his arms and lose myself at the same time.
His mouth moves over mine like he can’t get enough, like the world has narrowed to the curve of my lips, the warmth of my breath, the soft gasp that escapes me. My hands clutchhis shoulders, nails digging in lightly, and he presses me closer, molding me to him, solid and unyielding.
I let go. I give myself to the kiss completely, letting the need inside me, the ache of longing and relief and desire, wash over every nerve in my body. His hands roam my back, my sides, tethering me to him, making the world outside disappear.
His lips leave mine just long enough to draw a sharp breath, and I can feel the promise in that pause, heavy and unavoidable. Then he’s back, crashing into me with a hunger that makes me stumble, half-laughing, half-gasping. His mouth claims mine with teeth and tongue, demanding, ruthless.
Every movement is a claim, every groan against my mouth a warning and a need. I taste him, desperate and sharp, like the storm outside still raging in our veins.
His hands roam lower now, sliding from my waist down my thighs, skimming over skin, leaving fire in their wake. I arch into him instinctively, letting the friction, the heat, the raw intensity take over. There’s no hesitation—just the two of us, tangled in want and need, the world outside nothing but a whisper against our fever.
His mouth leaves mine for just a second to trail down my neck, teeth grazing, tongue brushing, and I shiver violently. “So fucking beautiful,” he growls, low and rough, voice vibrating through my bones. “Do you know what you do to me?”
I don’t answer with words. I let my body respond, arching, pressing into him, craving every touch, every greedy stroke of his hands, every rough edge of his lips. The line between pain and pleasure blurs deliciously, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it’s unbearable, magnetic.
And then he leans back slightly, eyes dark, almost black with need, as if daring me to test him. “You’re mine,” he rasps, and the possessiveness in his tone sets my skin on fire. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, breathless, trembling, caught between fear and desire. “All yours.”
His lips crash back to mine, even more urgent, more commanding than before. There’s no gentleness left—just the sharp, overwhelming, delicious intensity of two bodies desperate for each other. His hands cup my face now, holding me in place as if I might vanish if he lets go. My nails drag down his back, leaving marks, but he barely seems to notice, lost in the heat of us, the chaos of our hunger.
He undresses me slowly, reverently, as if every piece of fabric he removes is a prayer, and I’m the altar. I shiver under his touch, every brush of his fingers sending warmth through me. When my skin is bare to him, he doesn’t rush. He pauses, trailing his lips along my collarbone, down the gentle slope of my shoulders, over the curve of my neck.
His mouth finds the sensitive spot just behind my ear, and I inhale sharply, trembling. He lingers there, warm and soft, as if memorizing every inch of me, committing me to memory with reverent attention.
I close my eyes, letting his lips wander lower, along the gentle curve of my chest, his mouth tasting, kissing, worshipping. He pulls a nipple into his mouth and my back arches off the bed.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, his voice low and reverent, vibrating against my skin. “I just…want to feel you, all of you.”
His tongue licks and sucks until my nipple is hard as stone. He moves his mouth to the other nipple while he captures the first with his fingers. I moan, sinking my hand into his hair, holding him against my chest.
He sucks and licks my nipple for a moment before lowering his mouth down my body. I gasp as his mouth drags lower, tracing the curve of my waist, the heat between my thighs. My body arches into him, needing him, craving the way he’sdevouring me like I belong entirely to him. His fingers part me, sliding along my slick, hot folds, teasing, testing, claiming.
His mouth follows his fingers, hot and insistent, tongue circling, sucking, tasting me. I clutch his hair, nails digging in as he takes what he wants, driving me wild with how completely he owns me in this moment. Every groan, every gasp I make feeds the fire in him, and I can feel his need matching mine, coiling tight and feral.
“God…you taste so fucking good,” he growls, his voice rough, low, full of hunger. He keeps me pinned beneath him, hands gripping my hips, holding me in place as his mouth works me over, relentless, exacting. I’m lost in the heat of it, every nerve screaming for more, every inch of me alive to him.
I try to speak, to beg, to tell him to stop or go faster, but it’s useless—the words are caught in my throat by the force of him, by the dark, consuming need in his eyes. He notices, chuckles against me, harsh and intoxicating, like he’s savoring the control.
“Shh…don’t speak,” he rasps. “Just feel. You’re mine, all of you.”
I can only moan in response, trembling, quivering, utterly undone. His hands move with precision, with dominance, and every slick glide, every press, every tug drives me closer to the edge. I’m drowning in the possessive heat, and I don’t want to escape.
When he finally lifts his head, our eyes meet—dark, hungry, unrelenting. I can see it in him: the obsession, the claim, the raw, untamed need that mirrors my own. And I know, without question, that I am lost to him, completely, utterly, deliciously.
He pulls himself back up, a knowing smile on his face. I feel his hardness before he even moves. My breath catches as he pushes inside me—slow, deliberate, sweet almost, but with apossessive undercurrent that makes my pulse spike. Every inch of him fills me, stretches me, and I’m trembling, clinging to him, needing him.
His hands grip my hips, holding me still as he slides fully home, slow, savoring, letting me adjust, letting me feel the fullness of him. I let out a shaky moan, biting my lip, overwhelmed by how completely he occupies me. His eyes are dark, focused, devouring me as much as his hands and body do.
“You feel…perfect,” he groans, voice low, rough, but soft around the edges, like he’s savoring me in a way that’s both tender and entirely his.
I wrap my legs around him instinctively, urging him deeper, feeling every deliberate, claiming thrust. There’s sweetness in the slow rhythm, but every move carries that raw, possessive edge that makes me ache for more. My hands claw at his back, nails digging in, grounding myself as he sets a pace that’s torturous in the most delicious way.
