Of the woman who bled for him.
Came for him.
Burned for him.
And now?
Owns him.
He hisses through his teeth.
“You’re playing with fire, little moth.”
I lean down, palms against his chest.
“You lit it.”
Another roll of my hips.
I clench around him. Hard.
He groans—low and raw, like it’s breaking free from somewhere deep in his spine.
I kiss the corner of his mouth. “You dragged me into your hell. Now, lie still and burn with me.”
He laughs—but it’s not amusement.
It’s surrender.
“Fuck.”
I ride him deeper, slower, circling my hips until his back arches off the bed. His hands tremble against the sheets. He won’t touch me. He’s holding on to the last thread of control.
And he knows the second he lets go—I win.
I kiss his throat again, and murmur: “Say it.”
His eyes lock with mine.
Dark. Blown. Devoted.
“I’m yours.”
I don’t stop.
I don’t speed up either.
I keep the rhythm cruel—slow and deep, dragging my hips just enough to make his cock pulse, just enough to make his breath stutter with each pass of my soaked cunt over every nerve he used to destroy me and I watch him. Really watch him. His lips parted. Jaw clenched. Chest rising too fast to hide the ache. He’s trying to hold on. To stay in control. Not to give me what I’ve already taken.
I lean down, hair falling over his cheek. “You’re close, aren’t you?”
He swallows.
Doesn’t speak.
I clench again around him.
Grind down once.
