I nod, but say it aloud because this moment deserves a voice. “Yes.”
It isn’t surrender. It’s choice—the release of every held breath.
The restraints we’ve both clung to dissolve as I reach for him, nerves falling away with every heartbeat.
Forgetting about my hesitation and nerves. I explore his cock. Feeling the strength, the girth, the terrifying size.
The swallow in my throat is visible. But the need aches even hotter.
The tip of my thumb spreads the precum that has begun to bead its salty taste. I work slow, but methodical strokes. Filling my hand with his cock and watching a man lose his own control.
His composure fractures; mine disappears. He catches my wrist, pins it gently to the sheets, and claims my mouth again—hungry, reverent, the taste of everything we’ve been denying.
His hips rock.
The world shrinks to the sound of our breathing, the slide of skin, the rhythm we build and break. Every movement becomes both question and answer, every second of waiting collapsing into now.
It’s electric. The feel of him inside me, exploring what he has already claimed with his mouth.
Each breath against my neck sparks another wave of heat. The soft creak of the bed, the silk sliding beneath my back—all of it folds into a single, heady sound that feels like us.
“Look at me.”
I do. My lips parted, my chest rising to meet him. “I love you, Triston.”
It lights through him like wildfire. Our bodies sliding from our damp skin. Hands gripping the muscles in his back.
The low growl in his throat vibrates against my skin, possession and devotion colliding. He moves slower now—sure, deliberate—each motion a vow.
When it ends, the silence that follows isn’t empty. It hums with completion.
We didn’t fall apart—we came undone just enough to fit back together.
He stays there, hand at the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow circles until my breathing steadies.
“You okay?”
“Better,” I whisper.
The ache isn’t just in my body; it’s in every place we’ve been holding back.
He collapses beside me. I lay against his chest, skin damp, heart still racing. His arms wrap around me, strong and steady, anchoring me against the storm.
For a long time, neither of us speaks. We just breathe.
Finally, he tilts my chin, making me look at him. His voice is raw, unguarded. “Mine.”
My throat tightens. My lips tremble. But I smile, fierce and sure. “Yours.”
The word hangs in the room, not shameful, nothidden. True.
And I realize — storms don’t scare me anymore. Not when I’ve chosen to stand in the center with him.
Hour later
The curtains don’t block all the lights; a thin blade of gold cuts across the bed, stretching over the tangle of sheets, across his arm draped heavily around my waist, over my bare shoulder. The room smells like us — sweat, skin, something sweeter than I knew existed.
I don’t move at first. I don’t dare. Because for once, I don’t want to break the spell.
