We walk the rest of the way back to my apartment in silence, fingers tangled, both of us raw and trembling. At the door, he stops, leans his forehead against mine, and whispers, “I don’t know how to do this. But I want to learn. For you.”
I nod, throat too tight to answer. I pull him inside, locking the world out behind us. In the dim light of my hallway, he looks different—less god, more man.
He kisses me again, slow and reverent this time. “If I fuck this up,” he says, “tell me. Don’t run. Just tell me.” He drags hishands down my sides, cupping my hips. “I’ll do anything for you, Clara. Even if it kills me.”
I believe him, and I realize now I can’t throw what we have away. Maybe it’s messy and imperfect, but it’s us. Why am I fighting so hard for independence? Because I think I am supposed to? Why can’t I just submit and let him take care of me?
I drag him to my bed, stripping off layers of winter and pride until there’s nothing left but skin and need. He makes love to me like he’s apologizing for everything, every thrust a plea for forgiveness, every kiss a promise to try harder. I let him.
But then he becomes rougher than usual, as if some fuse has burned out in his self-control. He pins my wrists above my head, mouth devouring every inch of me, his body caging mine so completely that I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to. I don’t. I want more. I want all of him, even the parts that scare me.
He slides down, drags his mouth over my collarbone, my breast, my stomach, biting hard enough to leave marks. Marks that will be his for days, proof to the world that I’m taken, that I belong to him. The thought should terrify me; instead it makes me arch up, desperate for more.
He spreads my legs and kneels between them, tongue and teeth and fingers working me until I’m shaking, until I’m pleading, until I’m so far gone that dignity is a foreign country. He doesn’t let up even when I come, writhing and gasping, tears wet in the corners of my eyes. He keeps going, keeps me right on the knife edge, holds me there like he’s determined to break me open and scoop out everything inside.
“Alex,” I whisper, voice hoarse, “please?—”
He lifts his head, eyes wild, mouth slick. “You think you can just leave me?” His voice is savage. “You think I’ll let you walk away after this?”
“I never wanted to leave.” It’s a lie and a truth, both at once. I needed space, but I need him more.
He pushes inside me in one brutal thrust, and all the air leaves my lungs. He bites my shoulder to keep from shouting, hands fisting the sheets on either side of my head. He’s trembling, every muscle bunched and vibrating with restraint.
“I’ve tried to be good,” he says, each word punctuated by a thrust. “I’ve tried to give you space. But fuck, Clara, I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. You have no idea what you do to me.”
I wrap my legs around him, drag him deeper, and meet him stroke for stroke. “Then don’t,” I say, “don’t let me go.”
His hand finds my face, thumb rough against my cheek as he forces me to meet his gaze. “You’re mine,” he says, “mine, Clara. Say it.”
“I’m yours.” The words are a surrender and a challenge, and something in him snaps when he hears them.
He moves faster, harder, as if he’s trying to fuse us together. All the anger, all the love, all the need—he pours everything into me, and I take it, greedy for every piece. When I come again, it’s with his name on my lips, a confession and a prayer. He follows, collapsing on top of me, body shuddering as if he’s been exorcised.
We lie there, tangled and panting, my face buried in his neck, his arms locked around me like a vise.
“I can’t lose you,” he says into my hair, voice ragged.
“You won’t.” I kiss his shoulder, taste the salt of his sweat.
He rolls us so I’m on top, still joined,and I watch his face, every flicker of doubt or joy or pain. That’s when I know I have him— really have him, in a way no one else ever will. I lean down and kiss him, slow. His lips are swollen, bruised with wanting. We stay like that, close, until the world comes back into focus.
“I want to take you away for Christmas this weekend,” he says, voice still raw. “Just us. No guards. No work. No one but you and me.”
I search his eyes, and my heart melts at what I see there.
“Okay.”
Epilogue
ALEX
The firelight dancesacross Clara's face as she stands in the center of the cabin, turning slowly to take it all in. Her eyes widen at the soaring timber ceiling, the floor-to-ceiling windows that frame snow-covered mountains like living paintings. I watch her from my position by the fire, cataloging every micro-expression, every small intake of breath. The way she tucks that loose strand of hair behind her ear. The slight flush rising on her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cabin's warmth and everything to do with the intensity of my gaze. I can't look away. Don't want to.
"This is yours?" she asks, moving toward the massive stone fireplace where I've been stoking flames for the past hour, preparing for her arrival.
"Ours," I correct, the word slipping out before I can analyze its implications. "For the weekend, at least."
She smiles—that small, genuine quirk of lips that I've learned is reserved for moments of unguarded pleasure. Not her customer service smile or her polite social mask. This one reaches her eyes, softening them to warm honey.
