I laugh against her skin. "Confident."
"You gave me ammunition. I know how to use it."
Smart and fierce and trusting me with her vulnerability. How did I ever think I could stay distant?
We move together slowly at first, learning rhythms. She's soft where I'm hard, giving where I'm solid. Her hands map scars and muscle while mine trace curves and freckles.
When I finally push inside her, she gasps my name like a prayer.
"Okay?" I hold still, trembling with the effort.
"Perfect." She pulls me deeper, legs tight around my hips. "Move. Please."
So I do. Set a rhythm that builds slowly, watching her face for reactions. She's gorgeous like this—unguarded, present, completely with me.
"Korgan—" Her nails dig into my back. "Don't hold back."
"Don't want to hurt?—"
"You won't." She rocks against me, demanding. "I trust you. Stop being so careful."
Something breaks loose in my soul. The control I've been maintaining since the pavilion, the careful restraint.
I grip her hips and move harder, faster. She meets me thrust for thrust, fierce and fearless. The bed frame protests. Neither of us cares.
"Yes—" She's breathless, flushed. "Like that?—"
I hush her with my lips to swallow the sounds she's making, aware despite everything that walls are thin and contestants are waking.
She breaks the kiss to gasp against my throat. "Close, I'm?—"
"I've got you." Shift angle, find the spot that makes her arch. "Let go."
She does. Comes apart in my arms with my name on her lips, clenching around me. I follow seconds later, burying my face in her shoulder and breathing her name like an oath.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, sweaty and boneless. Trinity traces lazy patterns on my chest, her breathing gradually slowing.
"So," she says eventually. "That happened."
"Eloquent."
She pinches my side. "I'm allowed to be incoherent. You scrambled my brain."
"Fair." I move my lips against her hair. "You scrambled mine first."
"In the pavilion?"
"Earlier. The flour fight."
She laughs, the sound soft and content. "That was an accident."
"Was it?"
"Mostly." She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me. "I didn't expect you to retaliate."
"Competitive instincts."
"Mmm." She traces the scar on my shoulder. "What happens now? With the producers, the show..."
