Her legs lock around me like she doesn’t know if she wants to fight me or drag me deeper.
And I let her. I let her cling. Let her break.
Because this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
The moment she shatters.
And I feel it when she does—her body tightening like a trap snapping shut, her back arching as the moan claws out of her throat, raw and ruined and holy.
“Say it,” I whisper as I slow, grinding deeper into her. “Say thank you.”
She doesn’t speak—can’t. But her body does. Her sob is soaked in it. Her eyes, wide and lost, scream it.
So I give her more.
Because I’m not finished.
Not even close.
She’s trembling beneath me, wrecked in the way that makes her more art than person—cheeks flushed, lashes damp, lips parted like she’s still choking on the sound of my name even though she hasn’t said it once.
Not aloud.
But her body did. Every time it begged.
Every time it bent.
And I haven’t even touched her hair yet.
I sit back on my knees, still inside her, watching the flutter of her lashes like she’s caught somewhere between collapse and confession. I don’t move. Don’t say a word. Just stay there, deep and still, whilst the heat of her walls clenches around me like she hasn’t realised it’s over.
Except it’s not.
Because the real game always begins after they come.
I watch her breathe like I’m studying a painting. One that moves. One that fights back, but never leaves the frame.
“I should drag you back to your knees just for touching me,” I murmur, voice low and silk-threaded with mockery, my hand drifting lazily down her thigh. “But I think I prefer watching you not know what’s next. That’s the fun, isn’t it?”
She twitches when I press my palm flat to her belly—possessive, firm—like I’m claiming everything inside her now too. Because I am.
My thumb strokes a lazy circle just above her bruised hipbone.
Her eyes flick open.
And fuck, that fire’s still there.
Dimmed, yes.
But not dead.
Good. I’d be bored if she broke too easily.
I drag out of her slowly, making sure she feels every inch of retreat, the wet drag between us sinful and satisfying. Then I rise, buttoning my slacks like I didn’t just ruin her. Like I’m not still hard—still fucking obsessed—with every inch of her scent on me.
She rolls to her side, breathing like it hurts.
I grab the tablet from the dresser, flicking through a set of still images.
