My back arches off the couch as oversensitive nerves scream under his touch. "I can't—I can't?—"
"You can," he demands, lowering his mouth to my breast, teeth grazing my nipple before sucking it hard. The dual sensation makes me convulse. "Your pussy's dripping for me."
His fingers work faster, his cock never slowing its relentless pace. He tugs my hair, forcing my head back, exposing my throat to his hungry mouth.
"Look at you," he growls against my pulse. "Taking my cock so fucking deep. You were made for this. Made for me."
The pressure builds again, impossible, overwhelming. When it breaks, I gush around him, soaking us both.
"That's it," he groans, watching me come apart. "Fucking drown my cock."
He doesn't stop. He wraps his arms around me and keeps going, fucking me through the aftershocks, chasing his own release. I'm whimpering, overstimulated and delirious.
"I'm gonna fill this pussy up," he pants, rhythm faltering. "Gonna mark you from the inside out."
His whole body tenses, muscles rigid as steel as he drives in one final time.
"Fuck—Butterfly—you're mine—all fucking mine?—"
He shudders, pulsing deep inside me, his release triggering one last, shattering orgasm that leaves me boneless beneath him.
Home.
And for one reckless, breath-holding second, the world finally quietens around us — not because anything has calmed, but because his body on mine feels like the only solid thing in a universe that keeps shifting under my feet. His weight sinks into me, heavy and grounding, his breath spilling warm against my skin, his arms locking around me with a desperation that feels like a promise and a warning all tangled into one bruising embrace.
He holds me like loosening his grip means losing something he never expected to find, like the moment his fingers unclasp, reality will flood back in and take me with it.
And God help me, for a heartbeat — a frail, trembling heartbeat — I let myself believe he might not walk away this time.
His chest rises against mine in sharp, uneven bursts; his pulse thrums wildly where it presses into my ribs; his cock is still buried deep inside me, hot and thick and claiming, the final echo of a moment neither of us has come down from yet. And neither of us moves. Not even an inch. Not even a breath too loud. It’s as if the slightest shift might break whatever spell has wrapped itself around us.
His arms cage me in, his forearms braced on either side of my head, his forehead pressed to mine like he’s trying to fuse us together, trying to breathe me in before I vanish, trying to memorise the shape of me on his body like a man terrified he’ll never get this close again. His breath is jagged, uneven, soaked with everything he hasn’t said and maybe never will.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and the word doesn’t sound like frustration or anger — it sounds like surrender. It sounds like something inside him has finally cracked open.
He drags his mouth along mine, barely a brush, almost a question. “I should stay away from you,” he mutters, the words slipping out in a broken exhale, soft enough to feel like a confession. “I should never have touched you. Should’ve walked the fuck away the second I saw you in those fucking bunny ears.”
My heart pulls tight, but I stay silent.
I don’t push.
I don’t soothe.
I don’t rescue him from the truth he’s circling.
Because I want to hear it.
“I can’t just fuck you,” he murmurs, the words thick with guilt and longing that scrape down my spine like a bruise blooming. “I should walk away. I should let you go. But I can’t.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at me properly. His eyes search mine like he’s waiting for something — disgust, anger, a reason to end this before it ruins us both. Like he wants me to hate him so he doesn’t have to be the one who breaks first.
But I don’t.
I’m already ruined. Already his.
And something in his expression softens in a way that feels like a blade sliding between ribs, gentle but lethal.
Then — quiet, shaking — he says, “Let me take you.”
