The stretch was exquisite. Overwhelming. Samuel paused, giving me time to adjust, his forehead pressed against mine, both of us breathing hard. I could feel him trembling with the effort of staying still.
“Okay?” he managed.
“More than okay.” I shifted my hips experimentally, and we both groaned. “Move. Please. I need you to move.”
It started slow—long, deep strokes that had me gripping his shoulders, gasping with every thrust. But the pace built quickly, urgency taking over, and soon we were moving together in a rhythm that was primal and desperate and perfect. Samuel’s hand found mine, lacing our fingers together, pinning my hand to the pillow beside my head.
“Look at me,” he said, and I did—met his eyes in the darkness, saw myself reflected there, saw everything I was feeling mirrored back at me.
This wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t just two people scratching an itch.
This was something else. Something bigger. Something that terrified me and thrilled me in equal measure.
“Samuel—” I gasped, not sure what I wanted to say, just needing to say his name.
“I know.” He kissed me, swallowing whatever else I might have said. “I know, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
Sweetheart. The word cracked something open in my chest.
His free hand wrapped around me, stroking in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation pushed me over the edge. I came with his name on my lips, pleasure crashing through me in waves, and felt him follow moments later—his rhythm stuttering, his body tensing, a groan ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
We lay there afterward, tangled together, breathing hard, neither of us willing to move. Samuel was still inside me, softening now, and I didn’t want him to pull out. Wanted to stay connected for as long as possible.
“That was...” he started.
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I’ve had sex before, but that was...”
“Yeah.”
He laughed, the sound reverberating through both of us. “I’m usually more articulate than this.”
“I’m usually more everything than this.” I ran my fingers through his hair, damp with sweat. “You broke my brain.”
“Excellent.” He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. “That was the goal.”
He eventually pulled away to deal with the condom, returning with a warm washcloth that he used to clean us both with a tenderness that made my chest ache. Then he climbed back into bed, pulled the blankets over us—the ones Purrsephone had stolen, now reclaimed—and gathered me against his chest.
From outside the door, I heard an indignant meow.
“She’s still mad,” Samuel said.
“She can be mad. It was worth it.”
“Yeah?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Worth the feline wrath?”
“Worth everything.”
The words hung in the air between us, heavier than I’d intended. Worth the risk and the fear. Worth the inevitable complications of falling for someone whose life was thousands of miles away from mine.
Falling.
The word echoed in my mind, and I realized with sudden, startling clarity that it was true. I was falling for Samuel Bennett. Not just attracted to him, not just enjoying his company, not just appreciating the way he looked in yoga pants.
Falling. Present tense. Active. Ongoing.
Maybe already fallen.
