His rhythm became erratic. His breathing harsh. One hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with surprising tenderness given the intensity of how he was taking me.
"Now," he commanded, his voice breaking on the word. "Come now."
We shattered together.
My orgasm crashed over me just as I felt him pulse inside me, his release triggering mine or mine triggering his—impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. We were one creature with four bound limbs and two voices crying out in union, bodies locked together in perfect synchronicity.
He buried himself deep, as deep as he could get, grinding against me as he came. The pressure against my clit, the feeling of him pulsing inside me, the weight of him—it all extended my orgasm until I thought I might black out from the intensity.
"Maya," he groaned against my neck. "Fuck. My Maya. Mine."
"Yours," I sobbed, because I was sobbing again, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion and the complete surrender of this moment. "Always yours."
We stayed locked together as the waves slowly subsided, both of us trembling, both of us breathing like we'd run marathons. His weight on me should have been too much, but instead it felt grounding. Necessary. Like without it I might float away, dispersed into particles by the intensity of what we'd just shared.
When he finally lifted his head to look at me, his gray eyes were soft in a way I'd never seen them. Vulnerable. Open. All his walls down just like mine.
Hishandsshookashe reached for the silk binding my right wrist. The same hands that had held me still, that had controlled every moment of the last hour with steady precision, now trembled as he worked the quick-release knot he'd tied.
"Easy," he murmured, though I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or himself. The silk whispered free, and my arm fell to the mattress like it belonged to someone else. He caught it immediately, cradling my wrist in his massive hands, thumb rubbing gentle circles over the faint marks the silk had left.
"Any numbness?" he asked, his voice still rough from our shared release. "Tingling?"
"No," I managed. "Just . . . floaty."
He lifted my wrist to his lips, pressed kisses to the marks like he could heal them with touch alone. Then he moved to my other wrist, same careful process. The silk released, the immediate support, the gentle massage to ensure circulation was flowing properly.
My medical brain noted his technique—he'd done research, learned the proper way to care for someone after bondage. Butthe rest of me was too wrecked to analyze, could only feel the tenderness in his touch, the way he handled me like I was something precious that might break if he wasn't careful.
When he moved to my ankles, I whimpered at the loss of his weight, the loss of him inside me. Everything felt too empty, too exposed without him.
"Shh," he soothed, working the silk free from my right ankle. "Almost done, kitten. Then I'll hold you."
My legs felt like jelly when he released them, muscles trembling from being held in one position for so long. He massaged each ankle, each calf, working the blood flow back to normal with methodical care. Every touch was gentle, reverent, a complete contrast to the intensity of what we'd just done.
When the last of the silk was gone, coiled neatly on the nightstand instead of tossed aside, he gathered me against his chest. We were both still naked, skin to skin, sweat cooling in the air-conditioned room. I could feel his heartbeat against my cheek, still faster than normal. Could feel the way his arms trembled slightly as they wrapped around me.
We'd wrecked each other. Both of us. Whatever walls we'd maintained, whatever protective distance we'd kept—it was gone now. Demolished by silk and trust and the kind of pleasure that rewired your nervous system.
"I love you."
The words escaped without my permission, barely a whisper against his chest. But in the quiet of his room, they might as well have been shouted.
His whole body went still. Not tense exactly, but alert. Like a predator who'd heard something unexpected in the underbrush.
Oh god. Too much. Too soon. We'd known each other for days, not months. This was trauma bonding, Stockholm syndrome, a hundred psychological phenomena that weren't real love. Ishould take it back, laugh it off, pretend I'd said something else—
"I love you too," he said. "Moya Maya. My Maya. Mine to protect, mine to care for, mine to love."
The possession in it should have scared me. A week ago, it would have sent me running, triggered every flight response I'd developed over six months of hiding. But now it just made me feel safe. Held. Like I'd finally found the place I was supposed to be.
"Is it crazy?" I asked. "This fast? This intense?"
He considered the question seriously, fingers playing with my hair while he thought.
"Probably," he said finally. "But I've never done anything the normal way. Why start now?"
A laugh bubbled up, surprising us both. "That's not very reassuring."
