"Not like that." He's unlacing his own pants, shoving them down. Hard. Flushed. Leaking at the tip. "I need to be inside you. Now."
I reach for him before he finishes the sentence and pull him down. His cock presses against my entrance and I'm so wet, so slick from coming twice, that he slides in easy. All the way. One thrust that seats him deep and drags a groan from both of us.
Full. I'm so full.
He stills, his forehead dropping to mine. For a moment he's not smiling—just breathing, just feeling me around him, just present in a way he rarely is.
"Iowyn." My name comes out rough. Almost reverent.
My eyes have slipped closed.
"No." His hand finds my jaw and angles my face up. "Eyes on me. I want you here. With me."
I open my eyes. His are silver and close and fixed on mine.
"There you are." His thumb strokes my cheekbone. "Don't go anywhere I can't follow."
Something twists in my chest. Something I'm not going to name.
"Move." I wrap my legs around his hips. "I need you to move."
He moves.
Not gentle. Not slow. He fucks me the way he killed the Faith leader—certain, ruthless, inevitable. Each thrust drives the breath from my lungs. Each snap of his hips makes my nails dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.
"Mine." The word comes out of him like a growl, his teeth finding my throat. "You're mine. Say it."
"Yours." I claw at his back, his shoulders. "I'm—I'm yours—"
And I mean it. That's what terrifies me.
"Again."
"Yours—"
He's groaning into my neck, biting and sucking marks that I'll see tomorrow, marks that everyone will see. His hips stutter—he's close—and I'm close again too, impossibly, stretched tight around him.
"Come for me." His voice is wrecked. "One more time. I want to feel you."
I come. No choice in it, no thought, just my body clenching around him as he follows a second later, slamming deep with a groan that sounds like it hurts.
After.
Tangled in his sheets. His cock still inside me, softening. My legs still wrapped around him. Both of us breathing hard, sweat cooling on skin.
His head is resting on my chest, ear over my heart. His fingers trace patterns on my hip—idle, possessive. I run my hand through his hair and feel him press closer.
"The gun." I say it into the quiet. "It's perfect."
"I know."
"Arrogant bastard."
"Also true." He lifts his head and looks at me, silver eyes searching my face. "You've never fired one."
Not a question. He already knows.
"No."
