I hum as we fuck again, involuntary and helpless, and he groans, burying his face against my skin like the sound is oxygen.
We move together, guided by breath and pulse, by the trembling edge of restraint, by the half-sung half-felt melody between us.
His voice breaks against my shoulder. “Christ, baby… you’re going to ruin me.”
And later, when we collapse into the sheets, he murmurs another lyric against my neck as if he’s pouring it into me:“Your name’s a prayer… but my mouth makes it blasphemy.”
My eyes sting.
Because for the first time in my life, blasphemy feels like worship.
Sante Fe
I waketo the softest sound of Zane…typing.
When my eyes blink open, I see him crouched at the end of the bed, phone in one hand, the other braced on my ankle like he needs the physical connection to anchor him.
I yawn. “Morning.”
He doesn’t look up. “Hi.” His voice is sandpaper and sin.
I stretch, and pause. Over his shoulder I catch his phone screen open to a calendar app.
Little dots and notes.
Cycle projected start
Fertility window
Signs to monitor: breast soreness, cravings, mood swings
Ask Ruby…discreetly?
My soul leaves my body. “…Zane,” I say slowly. “What are you doing?”
He finally looks up, utterly unbothered. “Tracking.”
“Tracking… what?”
“You,” he says simply.
I sit up. “You can’t—Zane, that’s insane. You can’t track my—my cycle!”
He hums. “Too late. Already did. Now I’ll know when you’re PMS’ing so I can fuck you into a better mood.”
Why the hell do I like that idea so much? Okay, but what about the rest? Why does he want to know about breast soreness and fertility windows?
I’m on birth control.I’m on birth control. I’m on birth—“Why?”
He rises in one slow, prowling movement, coming to sit beside me, brushing a strand of hair off my shoulder. “Because I want to know everything about you,” he murmurs. “Everything your body does. Every rhythm. Every wave.” His fingers trail down my arm. “And because I want to know the exact second something changes.”
“Something like what?”
His silver eyes turn molten. “You know.”
Heat cannonballs through my stomach. I shake my head quickly. “Okay, well, we’re NOT talking about that. Ever. Also—privacy is a thing.”
“I respect your privacy,” he says solemnly.
