“God, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, hips flexing as he buries himself deep. “So tight, Mase. So perfect for me.”
He pulls out and thrusts back in, deeper this time. The stretch is perfect, the burn exactly what I crave. He sets a rhythm, hips snapping, harness straps creaking as he fucks into me, relentless and hungry. Every thrust hits that spot inside me that makes me see stars. I wrap my legs around his waist, ankles locking at his lower back, pulling him deeper, needing all of him.
He braces one hand on the headboard, the other gripping my jaw, tilting my face up to meet his. He marks me with his teeth, biting at my neck and shoulder, leaving bruises I’ll wear like jewelry for days.
“You’re mine,” he growls. It’s not a question.
“Yours,” I gasp, meeting him thrust for thrust. “Always. I love you.”
I reach down, drag my fingernails along the cut of his hip, feel him shudder, see the veins in his neck go taut. His cock hits something inside me that makes my toes curl. I clutch his ass, pulling him closer, holding him in. The friction is obscene, but I want more. Always more.
“Harder,” I beg, and he answers by slamming into me again and again, the bed groaning in protest. It’s fast, rough, urgent, until suddenly it isn’t. He slows, hips grinding, going deep and deliberate. He cups my jaw, thumb pressing my lips until I open for him, then kisses me slow and lingering, like he’s savoring me. I taste blood, salt, the faint hint of sour apple from that damn apple pie shot he took from Dixie. I moan into his mouth, and he swallows the sound whole.
My skin sticks to the sheets, sweat slick between our bodies, the sharp tang of his cologne making everything electric. He buries his face in my neck, breathing hard, his heat feverish. I cling to him, nails in his back, thighs shaking.
He’s saying my name now, over and over, a litany. “May. May. Fuck, May.”
I wrap my legs higher, calves locking against his ribs, and he whines, the sound lost in my pillow. His rhythm falters. I can feel the edge, sharp and terrifying. I want to see him come apart. I want to watch him lose control.
He growls, bending to bite at my throat, lips and teeth marking me. “You’re mine,” he whispers, thrusts quickening, harder and faster, control gone. “Let go for me, sweetheart.”
I do. I come with a shout, spilling across my belly, striping the harness, the sheets, everything. He chases me through it, fucking me harder, pounding into me until I’m a mess, sobbing his name. He comes with a roar, hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside me.
He collapses on top of me, crushing me into the mattress. I don’t care. I crave his weight, the way it grounds me. I wrap myarms around him, greedy for every ounce of contact, every scrap of warmth.
We lie there, tangled, sticky, glowing in the aftermath. It’s messy. It’s a little ridiculous. And it’s perfect.
He nuzzles into my neck, beard rough against my jaw, lips finding the corner of my mouth for a slow, lazy kiss. “Love you, Mason. Mase. May. All of you,” he whispers, softer now, like the words are something he’s still afraid to drop. “Every version of you.”
I laugh, still warm and loose and full. “Say it again,” I murmur. “I’ll never get tired of hearing it.”
He rolls us onto our sides, pulling the sheets up around us, arms wrapped snug around my waist. I trace idle circles on his shoulder, watching the neon glow from the Sleigh Queen sign ripple faintly across the ceiling. Downstairs, the bar is still roaring, a distant hum of laughter and music and spilled joy. Up here, it’s quiet. It’s ours.
For a while, we don’t talk. We just breathe together. His thumb rubs slow, absent patterns into my lower back, steady and grounding, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and thoughtful, “I used to think love was something you either got right the first time…or lost forever.”
I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “We were kids,” I say gently. “We didn’t lose it. We just didn’t know how to hold it yet.”
He hums at that, thoughtful, then leans down to kiss my forehead, my nose, the corner of my mouth, like he’s counting me all over again. Like he’s making sure I’m real.
“I keep thinking about everything we didn’t get,” he admits. “All those years.”
I tilt my head, meeting his eyes. “And I keep thinking about everything we do.” Something in his expression shifts.Softens. He smiles at me like the weight he carried for two decades finally set itself down.
I turn onto my side and tuck myself closer, looping a leg over his. He smells like sweat and cheap cologne and peppermint oil from my wig remover, but underneath it all, he smells like home. I breathe him in until my chest loosens.
“Hey,” I murmur.
“Hey.”
“You ever think about what comes next?”
He props himself up just enough to really look at me. The fairy lights catch in his eyes, turning them bright and open. “All the time,” he says. “I think about mornings. About coffee and snow shovels and fixing whatever breaks next. About you yelling at me from the stage and pulling me into the crowd anyway. About falling asleep like this, and waking up the same way.”
I smile, slow and real. “That sounds exhausting.”
He laughs softly. “Sounds perfect.”
