It’s too much—his cock pounding into me, his hand at my throat, the desk digging into my back, my own fingers on my clit. The orgasm rips through me hard and fast, a shock of pleasure that makes me shudder and cry out, my whole body going tight and wet and shaking. I clamp down around him, milking him, and he loses it, surging forward with a broken gasp, hips grinding as he spills inside me.
We stay tangled like that, breathless, both of us shaking. His forehead presses to mine, sweat slick between us, and for a moment we just hold each other—his cock still pulsing inside me, my legs locked around his waist, hearts pounding together.
He stays between my legs longer than he needs to, longer than makes sense, his weight anchoring me to the desk. His breathing slows, but his hands don’t leave me. One palm rests at my hip, thumb brushing the skin there like he’s memorizing it. The other slides up my side, not sexual now, just…present. It makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t expect.
Aleksander presses his forehead to mine again. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just there.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
I can feel him thinking. I can feel it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his breath changes, the way his thumb stills like he’s caught himself doing something dangerous.
“You know,” he says finally, low and careful, “this is not how things usually go for me.”
I let out a soft breath, my fingers drifting over his shoulder, tracing the muscle there. “No?” I ask, teasing lightly, even though my heart is starting to pound again, slower now, heavier.
He huffs out a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “No.” His eyes flick over my face, like he’s searching for something. “Usually, it’s simpler.”
Something about the word makes my stomach dip.Simpler.
I tilt my head. “And this isn’t?”
His thumb presses into my hip unconsciously. “No,” he says again. Firmer this time.
The silence stretches. It’s thick. Charged in a way that has nothing to do with sex anymore. I can feel it hovering there, something unspoken, something too big to touch without consequences.
He swallows. I watch his throat move.
“You get under my skin,” he says instead of whatever he almost said. His voice is rough, stripped down. “You don’t listen when you’re supposed to. You look at me like you see more than I show.” A pause. “That’s dangerous.”
My chest tightens. I smile softly to cover it. “You don’t seem very scared.”
His eyes lift to mine instantly.
“I am,” he says, just as quickly. Then, like he’s caught himself again, he shakes his head, a sharp exhale. “Not of you.”
His hand slides from my hip to my lower back, pulling me in, not crushing, just close enough that our bodies still line up, skin to skin. His voice drops, quieter now, meant only for me.
“There are things—” he starts, then stops. His jaw clenches. “Things I don’t mix with…this.” His fingers flex against my back. “With you.”
My heart kicks hard at that. I don’t push. I don’t ask him to finish. I just hold his gaze, letting him feel that I’m still here, still steady.
For a moment, it looks like he might say it. Whatever it is. His eyes soften, just barely, like the edge of something dangerous giving way. His thumb lifts, brushing my cheekbone, slow and reverent, nothing like the way he touched me before.
“You matter,” he says instead. The words are quiet, almost torn out of him. Then, immediately, like he regrets letting even that much slip, he pulls back a fraction, clearing his throat. “More than you should.”
I feel it then. The almost-confession. The thing sitting right behind his teeth that he refuses to let out.
I smile, softer now, real. “That’s okay,” I say gently. “I don’t need promises.”
His eyes narrow slightly, searching my face. “You should,” he mutters.
I lean in and kiss him before he can retreat further. It’s not frantic. Not desperate. Just slow and sure, my lips fitting against his like they belong there. When I pull back, I rest my forehead against his again.
“I like you like this,” I say. “Honest. Even when you don’t say everything.”
For a long second, he doesn’t move. Then his hand slides into my hair, gripping just enough to remind me who he is, what he holds back.
“Careful, Bella,” he murmurs. “If I start saying everything, I won’t know how to stop.”
