I groan and thrust deeper, and everything comes down to this—her body, my need, the rhythm we’ve found. My hand slides up and catches her chin, turning her face enough to take her mouth from the side. The kiss is messy, all teeth and breath. I’m everywhere—inside her, around her, consuming her.
“Mine,” I mutter against her lips, like the word was ripped from somewhere deep. “All fuckingmine.”
She trembles in my arms. “Red?—”
I drive into her, voice breaking. “Cookie.”
“It’s Sasha,” she breathes out. “My real name. It’s Sasha.”
Something changes in her body. The name that’s been armor for her falls away.
I still for half a heartbeat, everything in me going quiet except for the roaring in my ears. My fingers dig into her hip.
“Just for you,” she whispers. “Only you get to call me that.”
My hand tightens on her hip, possessive and reverent at once. “Sasha.” I taste it, roll it on my tongue like something sacred, like a prayer she’s given me. Then I move again, harder, deeper, determined to claim every part of her. “My Sasha. Fuck, say it again.”
“Sasha.” Her voice breaks on her own name. “I’m yours.”
Her body clenches around me, and I lose it for a second, my rhythm faltering. I recover, my hand sliding down her front, finding her clit again, circling with just the right pressure. That’s it. That’s all she needs.
She comes hard. There’s no warning, just a violent detonation that rips a scream out of her. I hold her through it, cursing into her hair, my thrusts becoming ragged and more desperate.
“Look at me,” I demand, and she does, turning enough to see me. My face is open, raw, every wall I’ve built stripped away. “Fuck, Sasha—I’m gonna?—”
“Come,” she whispers, clenching around me deliberately. “I want it. Want to feel you.”
Fuck!
I pulse inside her, hot even through the condom, and it sends another wave of pleasure through her.
My ears ring, and it’s so fucking loud I can’t breathe. Then, there’s the sound of our panting, followed by blissful silence.
I sag against her, my chest to her back, my breath hot at her neck. I don’t crush her; I catch myself and press a kiss to her shoulder like I forgot I’m allowed.
“That was good, right?” I say, my voice blown.
Like my fucking world.
She laughs. “Understatement of the year.”
I ease out, handle the condom, and toss it in the bin. Then I’m turning her, lifting her, laying her on the bed with more care than I’ve given anything in years. She pulls me down with her.
We’re tangled together, breathing hard, our heartbeats synced.
“Do you want some water?” I ask after a minute, already pushing up.
“Don’t move,” she mumbles, dragging me back. “I’m using you as a weighted blanket.”
I huff a laugh. “You’ll overheat.”
“I’m a baker,” she says against my throat. “I thrive in ovens.”
My hand draws idle shapes over her skin, both lazy and possessive. The storm grumbles outside.
“Hey,” she says, tipping her head so she can see my face. “Areyouokay?”
I look at her, and the answer surprises me. “Yeah.”
