I rock against his hand, a moan escaping my lips.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, watching my face. “Let go.”
“I want you,” I gasp. “Inside.”
“You’ll get me.” He withdraws his hand, slick with me. He rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, slicking it.
I lift my hips. I position myself.
I sink down.
Slowly. Inch by inch.
He fills me completely. It’s a stretch, a fullness that borders on pain before settling into a deep, heavy ache of rightness.
When I’m fully seated, Jackson shudders. A tremor runs through his entire frame. He grips my hip so hard it will leavea bruise. He buries his face in the valley between my breasts, inhaling sharply against my skin.
“Jesus,” he whispers against my skin. “You feel?—”
“Real?”
“Inevitable and perfect.”
He lifts his head. He doesn’t move his hips—he can’t, not without tearing his stitches. But he doesn’t need to.
He brings his hand back up to my clit.
His voice drops to something dark and molten.
“Ride me.”
My pulse stutters. Not from fear. From recognition.
He isn’t asking—he’s giving me the reins.
I slide onto him slowly, deliberately, owning every inch of the movement. His breath punches out hard, hands clamping on my hips, but he lets me choose the rhythm.
“Set the pace,” he growls.
I do.
I move with intention, with hunger, with a confidence I didn’t know lived in my bones. Heat blooms through me as I find the rhythm that makes his jaw clench, his fingers dig harder, his control fray.
Every roll of my body against his sparks another answering shudder from him. His muscles lock beneath my hands. The sound he makes—low, broken—is nothing like polite bedroom noises. It’s raw.
His eyes drag up my body, hot enough to burn.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Not holding anything back.”
I don’t. I lean into the pleasure, into the pressure building between us, into the rhythm that turns my breath into sharp, uneven pulls. My hands slide over his chest, his shoulders, anchoring myself as the heat coils tight.
The world dissolves—no servers, no AI, no danger. Just the slick heat of skin against skin and the way he meets my movement with a hunger that matches mine beat for beat.
His hands rise along my spine, guiding, urging, but never taking control unless I give it.
“Faster,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Only if you want it.”
I do.
