I tighten my arms around his waist, pulling him in more possessively.
“You know you’re mine now, right?” My voice is low, rough with sincerity. “You know this—us—this isn’t a fucking game.”
His eyes lock on mine, wide and searching. Then his hands curl a little tighter against my shoulders, grounding himself in me.
“I do,” he says, voice soft but sure. “I’m yours, Alexander. I told him yes. That we’re together.”
My heart stutters.
fuck, he’s going to ruin me.
A smile uncontrolled and stupidly wide breaks across my face. And whatever he sees in it makes him blink at me in awe, like it’s a version of me he’s never seen before. His own smile spreads, bright and blinding in response.
“So much for keeping things slow,” he teases, rolling his eyes playfully.
“I’m going at your pace, baby,” I murmur, my grin twisting into something more devilish as I slide my hand to the back of his neck and pull him closer.
His lashes flutter. We’re so close now that our lips are almost brushing.
The look in his eyes is all longing and pure naked want. Like I’m the only thing he’s ever needed. Then his lips touch mine, soft at first, tentative, almost testing. I catch his bottom lip between mine and kiss him gently, letting him set the rhythm.
He deepens it slowly, his tongue brushing mine, and a low, impatient groan escapes me.
I slide my hand into his hair, tilt his head, and crush our mouths together, letting the kiss devour us both. No more restraint. No more holding back.
He moans against me, the sound breathy and helpless. I swallow it greedily like it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.
His mouth is soft against mine, still so fucking addictive and one I can never get tired of. I let my hands slip under his shirt, palms finding skin. His waist is narrow, his back warm under my touch. Every time I touch him, it feels like something inside me settles and ignites at the same time.
He gasps when my thumbs skim just above his waistband.
I take that sound—that fucking sound—and I drink it in like oxygen.
He kisses me harder, more open, more desperate, his breath shaky, and I can feel him trembling on my lap, hips twitching forward against me.
I can feel how hard he is. How hard I am.
It’s been three days.
Three days since I had him beneath me shaking, breathless, whispering my name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world. Three days since I buried myself inside him for the first time and watched him come undone just from the way I filled him.
But I haven’t touched him like that again. Not since that night.
He was sore the morning after. Could barely sit without wincing, even though he tried to hide it behind that soft smile of his. He told me I wasn’t too rough. Said he liked it—loved it— I believe him, I know he liked it, but I don’t like seeing him hurt.
So I waited.
We still touch and kiss. But I don’t let it go further. Not until I was sure he was okay. Even though every night I lay beside him, hard and aching, breathing in the warm scent of his skin. Even though every morning I wake up with his legs tangled in mine, his soft breaths brushing over my throat, and the ghost of that night carved into my memory, the way his body trembled when I filled him, the heat, the stretch, the perfect way he clenched when he came for me.
And now?
Now he’s in my lap, grinding against me, panting into my mouth like he’s starving for me. I groan and kiss him harder, deeper, hungrily. My hands slide down to his ass, fingers gripping tight as I pull him against my body. The friction sends a jolt through us both and he moans into my mouth, soft and desperate.
Then he pulls back from the kiss, panting. Lips red, pupils wide.
“Alex,” he breathes small and raw.
My name sounds like something sacred coming from his mouth. I kiss down his jaw, then back to his mouth, biting his bottom lip gently before letting it go.
