When he finally pushes into me, it’s slow and careful, giving me every second to adjust to the heat and size of his cock. I feel my body stretch around him, the sharp, sweet burn of it sliding through me, and for a breath my vision goes soft at the edges when my orgasm dances just out of reach.
His forehead drops to mine. His hand tightens on my thigh.
“God, kitten,” he groans. “You feel—” He cuts himself off with a bitten curse, breath shuddering.
I breathe with him. In. Out. The way he taught me. My nails drag down his back, not to hurt, just to say yes, yes,yes.
“You okay?” he pants.
“Move,” I say. “Please. Make me come, Atticus.”
He obeys.
His rhythm finds me faster than I expect—like a song we both somehow already know the words to. Each roll of his hips drags a new sound out of me. Little broken moans. Sharp curses. His name.
He watches my face like it’s the best show he’s ever seen. Every hitch in my breath, every twitch of my mouth, he adjusts to meet it. Deeper, slower, sharper, whatever I need.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, eyes burning. “Taking it. Taking me. You know what that does to a guy, sweetheart?”
I glance sideways on a gasp and catch the briefest flash of Conrad watching through the crack in the door—his head tipped back against the chair, eyes shut, jaw set hard. His hands are folded on his chest, book abandoned. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t intrude.
He juststays.
The sight punches something inside me loose. I look back at Atticus and let it show.
“I feel safe,” I blurt, breathless. “With you. With him there. With all of you.”
His expression breaks open, raw and tender. His thrusts stutter for a second, like he’s overwhelmed.
“Yeah?” he whispers. “Then I’m doing something right.”
He drops his mouth to mine again, kissing me through it, swallowing my sounds when the pleasure starts to crest. His hand leaves my thigh, slides up to cradle the side of my face, thumb brushing away a tear I didn’t know I’d let go.
“Let go for me,” he says, voice rough. “C’mon, Phoenix. Take what you want.”
I do.
The wave hits hard—heat flooding my body in one fierce rush, every muscle going tight then loose. I clutch at him, nails digging in, back arching. The world narrows to his weight, his voice, the way he says my name like it’s a promise and a prayer and a dirty word all at once.
He follows me over the edge with a strangled sound that breaks into a laugh on the end, hips jerking, his precious control snapping. His body shudders against mine as he comes, breath torn out of him in ragged bursts.
For a long moment, all I can hear is our breathing and the ceiling fan.
Atticus finally collapses, careful, bracing most of his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me. He buries his face in my neck and just… breathes me in.
“Fuck,” he says softly. “You’re gonna be the death of me. Best way to go, though.”
I huff a weak laugh, still boneless, still buzzing.
The door creaks almost imperceptibly. Conrad doesn’t come in. He doesn’t speak. I just feel the shift in the air, the faint scrape of chair legs as he stands, then the soft pad of his footsteps as he moves closer to the door, like he’s checking that I’m really laughing, really okay.
“Still green?” he asks from the hall, voice low, careful.
“Yeah,” I call back, my voice rough but steady. “Still green.”
There’s a pause, then a quiet, “Good,” and the chair cushions sigh as he sits again.
Atticus lifts his head enough to meet my eyes. “You know he’s not gonna forgive himself for not stopping it before it happened,” he says.
