“You adore me,” I remind him, breathless.
He drops his head, nuzzling my nose with his. “Yeah,” he says against my mouth. “I really, really do.” Then he kisses me like he’s claiming the words.
Like he’s claimingme.
His mouth is hot and sure, every brush of his lips a careful, thorough exploration. His hands settle at my waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of my shirt just enough to touch skin.
I shiver.
His palms are warm, calloused from too many keyboards and too many late nights with other people’s code. They glide up my sides, slow and reverent, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. He pauses at the line of my ribs, as if asking another silent question.
I answer by arching into his touch, my own hands skimming under the back of his shirt, fingers splaying over the flex of his muscles.
He makes a low sound in his chest, half groan, half something softer that hits me straight in the center.
We move together, the kiss deepening, our bodies adjusting almost automatically—finding angles, fitting closer, layers of barrier turning into annoyances.
He pulls back just enough to look down at me.
The lamplight from the hallway spills in under the door, painting him in soft gold and shadow.
“You’re sure?” he asks again, like he can’t stop verifying, like I might glitch any second and disappear.
I cup his face, thumbs brushing the edge of his jaw. “I’m sure,” I say. “Knight, I chose this. I’m choosingyou. I want you to choose me back.”
His breath shudders out. “I already did,” he says. “I just… didn’t know if I was allowed to keep you.”
That’s it.
That’s the sentence that pushes me all the way over the edge.
“Idiot,” I whisper, kissing the word into his mouth. “You’re stuck with me.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating against my lips, and then there’s no more talking for a while.
Clothes become… negotiable.
Not in a frantic ripping way, but in a slow, deliberate unwrapping. Every inch of exposed skin feels monumental, like a reveal in a game I’ve been playing blind for years.
His hands are patient, careful, always giving me time to stop, to breathe, to change my mind. Every time I don’t—every time I pull him closer instead—I feel the last of his restraint unravel.
He touches me like I’m something he’s wanted for a long time and never thought he’d get to keep. Like he’s memorizing textures and sounds for safekeeping.
I touch him back with the same hunger.
He grips his dick, stroking it as he brings it closer. “You want this?”
I want to tell him desperately. That I’ve wanted him like this for so long it hurts. Instead, I smile. “Yes, please,” I beg.
He fists his dick, pushing it at my entrance. I hiss as he pushes deeper inside me.
The world shrinks to the press of him, the heat of him above me, the way we fit together without any room left for fear between us.
He murmurs my name against my skin like a prayer he doesn’t believe in.
I say his like a promise I absolutely do.
Time fractures.
