My nails dig into his back. He drives in until he’s buried to the hilt, hips flush against mine. We don’t move. Just breathe.
Then he starts to thrust.
Slow. Deep. Grinding against my clit with every stroke. His cock fills every inch, stretching me until I’m panting, legs wrapped tight around his waist.
“You feel like heaven,” he groans. “Like fucking salvation.”
I meet his thrusts, greedy for more. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He fucks me harder now, pace building. His hands grip my hips like anchors, pulling me into each stroke. The bed creaks. The air is thick with sweat, heat, the wet slap of our bodies colliding.
His mouth finds mine again—kisses rough, needy. His tongue mimics his cock, plunging deep. I moan, clawing at his back.
“I’m close,” I warn.
“Then come,” he growls, thrusting harder, deeper.
My body detonates.
I shatter, convulsing around him, every nerve lit with fire. He keeps thrusting through it, chasing his own release.
With a final growl, he slams deep—hips jerking as he spills inside me, cock pulsing with each hot wave.
We collapse.
Tangled. Sweating. Shaking.
His head buries in my neck. I stroke his hair, both of us breathing like we’ve survived war.
Because maybe we have.
After,we lie entangled like words left unsaid. Her cheek rests on my chest. My fingers drift through her hair.
She breathes slow.
It’s peaceful.
A siren somewhere outside faults—something shifting but distant. We don’t stir. We don’t need to.
She smiles up at me. “Quiet.”
I press a kiss to her temple. “Yes.”
The weight of our sins presses in, but so does our choice.
Together, we chart a new peace—one heartbeat, one night at a time.
In the quiet aftermath, our bodies remember humanity more than the Reaper will ever swallow.
For one night, there is peace.
CHAPTER 22
ARIA DAWSON
The lobby smells sterile and damp—like an overcleaned hospital wing. My heels click sharply on polished stone, each step echoing off featureless walls. It’s been days since the safehouse, since Aebon’s fierce protection, since the peace we made last night in his arms. But here, under florescent lights and bureaucratic chill, none of that belongs. All I carry is bruised skin and fractured hope.
