I lift her effortlessly, carrying her to the bedroom. The moonlight spills across the sheets, painting her in silver. She pulls me down with her, unfastening my belt, palms trembling. My cock springs free, thick and hard, and her eyes widen.
“You’re… gods, you’re big.”
“I’ll go slow,” I promise.
“No,” she whispers. “Don’t.”
Her legs wrap around me as I settle between her thighs. I press the head of my cock against her slick pussy, feeling her heat. She’s so wet I can barely breathe.
“Now,” she begs. “Please.”
I push in, inch by careful inch, watching her expression twist with pleasure and pressure. She gasps, nails digging into my shoulders.
“Talk to me,” I growl.
“You’re—fuck, you’re stretching me,” she moans. “Feels so good. So fucking full.”
I thrust deeper, slowly, letting her adjust. Her pussy tightens around me like she was made for this. For me. Her walls clench and flutter, milking me already.
“Gods, Amy,” I grunt. “You feel like heaven.”
She pulls me down, mouth on mine, hips lifting to meet my thrusts. I set a rhythm—slow, deep, relentless. Her moans get louder, more urgent.
“Harder,” she pleads.
I give her what she asks. I drive into her, deep and powerful, each thrust a vow. Her body sings beneath mine—arched, open, alive. Our skin slaps, wet and hot. The sound fills the room, mingled with gasps and curses and desperate whimpers.
“You’re mine,” I snarl. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” she cries, voice ragged. “Fuck—Darun—yours.”
Her climax hits like a wave, her whole body tensing around me. Her pussy clenches, pulling me deeper. I follow with a roar, burying myself fully as I spill inside her, shaking with release.
We collapse, breathless. Our bodies still pulse with aftershock, but the world is quiet now.
“I’m not leaving,”I murmur.
She smiles into my skin. “Good. Because I wasn’t letting you go.”
We lie there, tangled in sheets and sweat and trust. I sleep without fear.
CHAPTER 33
AMY
Iwake to a sputtering sound—somewhere between a pan clattering and Darun’s voice muttering, “Why the hell is this burning?” The murk of morning light slants through the blinds, blotchy and hesitant, and I take a moment to just lie still, to taste the quiet between us. The scent of smoke creeps under the door before I move, and I realize: he’s in the kitchen, trying to cook.
I slip from the sheets, the softness of the mattress still beneath me, and pad down the hall. The bathroom door is ajar; steam drifts from the towel rack. But the kitchen is where the real scene is. He’s bent over a pan, spatula in hand, shirt sleeves rolled. Edges of the egg are gone black, smoke curling upward. The air smells of burnt protein and something like hope.
Libra appears behind him in slippers, hair wild, eyes half-open. “Daddy’s cooking?” she murmurs. Then she rubs her face and says, “Mommy?”
He startles. The spatula jumps. The egg sizzles. I laugh before I can stop it—a real laugh, soft and warm. It cracks the tension like a fault line.
“Here,” I say, stepping in, grabbing a spoon. “Let me help before we set off the smoke alarm.”
He glances over shoulder, eyes startled. “I was trying?—”
“Let’s salvage it.” I edge close. We both hover over the pan. I take the spatula, turn the egg carefully, coaxing it back from the brink. The kitchen smells of oil warmed, garlic from last night’s leftovers, and fresh bread toast languishing nearby.
