"No. Yes. I don't know." I'm switching between yes and no like my brain can't decide what my body already knows.
He laughs, low and rough. "You're killing me here. Which is it?"
"I—" I want to say yes. Want to tell him to continue. But the words stick in my throat.
"Your deeper part knows what it wants," he says, his voice gentle despite the hunger in his eyes. "It just can't communicate properly yet."
"What?"
"The part of you that's afraid of being judged. Of beingwrong. Of wanting something you think you shouldn't." He leans down and brushes his lips against mine. "But I know how to make those deeper parts communicate."
"How?"
"Like this."
He enters me slowly, and the sensation steals my breath. It's been so long, and he's bigger than I expected, and there's a moment of discomfort that makes me tense.
"Breathe," he murmurs against my ear. "Just breathe."
I do, and he slides deeper. The discomfort unravels into pure sensation—overwhelming.
Then he starts to move.
It starts soft. Gentle. Like he's giving me time to adjust. To accept. But then the energy between us turns. The gentleness evaporates, replaced by raw need.
He grips my hip, pulls me closer, and the next thrust is harder. Rougher. A culmination of three months of wanting compressed into this single act.
"Ivan—" But I don't know if I'm protesting or encouraging.
"Too much?"
It is. It's too much. Too intense. Too overwhelming.
But also not enough.
"No," I gasp. "Don't stop."
So he doesn't.
His hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, just reminding me who's in control—and I feel something inside me break open. A last defense crumbling under the weight of sensation.
My nails rake down his back, and he groans. The sound is primal. Masculine. It makes me claw harder.
The discomfort bleeds into euphoria. Into safety. Into a kind of freedom I've never felt before.
I'm not tense anymore. Not uncertain. Not thinking about whether this is right or wrong or insane.
I'm just feeling.
And it's everything I drew in those hidden sketches. Everything I marked in those books. Everything I wanted but was too afraid to name.
"Look at me," he commands, and I do.
His eyes are pure hunger. Pure possession. "You're mine now, Lila. Say it."
"I'm—" The words catch as he hits a spot inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. "I'm yours."
"Again."
