And I let him.
I take every thrust, every filthy word he groans in my ear:
“That’s it, baby.Take it.”
“You’re so fucking tight, I could lose my mind.”
“Been thinking about you—about this—since that goddamn limo.”
“This is better than the limo,” I pant, nails raking down his back.
“Much better.”
He kisses me as he drives into me, our bodies slick and straining and desperate.And then his rhythm changes—goes deeper, slower—and I feel it in my soul.
And when we come—together—it’s not just physical.It’s fucking spiritual.
When we fall onto the mattress, panting, sweat-soaked and breathless, I realize I’ve never felt more seen.More claimed.
More loved.
He doesn’t pull away, just strokes my hip and murmurs nonsense into my hair until my breath slows.
“Still think I’m Mr.Robot?”he asks, and I feel his smirk against my temple.
I smile.
“Definitely not.But we might need to revisit your commitment to efficiency.That was...overachieving.”
“I don’t do average,” he mutters, already half-asleep.
No, he doesn’t.
And neither do I.
Not anymore.
"Good.Because I've been thinking about this since you held my Wonder Woman underwear."
"That's a very specific timeline."
"I'm a very specific person."
He's quiet long enough that I hold my breath.Then: "Any regrets?"
I shake my head.“None at all.”
"Good.Because I think I might have broken your coffee table with my foot."
He lifts his head to look.My coffee table is indeed at an odd angle.
"How?"I ask, lost for breath.
"Enthusiasm?”He kisses my earlobe.“I’ll buy you a new one."
"You can't buy me furniture."
"Why not?"
