I leaned down, kissing him deeply, tasting myself on his tongue. Then I reached between us, positioning him at my entrance.
Slowly, I sank down, inch by inch. He was long and thick, stretching me in the best way, filling me completely. We both groaned as I took him fully, my hips settling against his.
"Fuck, Mila," he breathed, his hands tightening on my waist. "You feel incredible."
I rocked experimentally, the friction sending pleasure rippling through me. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, jaw clenched, but then they opened, locking on mine.
"Ride me," he said, voice rough. "Take what you need. Fuck me."
I did.
Starting slow, grinding in circles that hit just the right spot.
His hands roamed—up my sides, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples. I leaned forward, bracing on his chest, picking up speed. The slap of skin, our mingled breaths, the way he thrust up to meet me—it was overwhelming.
But he surprised me again. One hand slid between us, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing in time with my movements. The added sensation pushed me higher, faster than I expected.
"Connor—I can't?—"
"Yes, you can," he encouraged, his other hand in my hair, pulling me down for a kiss. "Come for me again."
I did, clenching around him, my vision blurring with the intensity. He flipped us then, still inside me, his body pinning mine in the most delicious way. He thrust deep, slow at first, each stroke deliberate, hitting that spot inside that made stars burst behind my eyes.
"You're mine," he growled. A plea, wrapped in heat.
"Yes," I gasped, nails digging into his back. "And you're mine."
That undid him. His pace quickened, hips snapping against mine, but even in the frenzy, he was attentive—kissing my neck, whispering how good I felt, how perfect.
I'd never been wanted like this, never felt this connected, this consumed.
When he came, it was with a low groan, burying himself deep, his body shuddering over mine. I held him through it, my legs wrapped tight, aftershocks rippling through us both.
We lay there afterward, tangled and spent, his head on my chest, my fingers in his hair. The room smelled of us—sweat, sex, something deeper.
"I've never ..." he started, voice muffled against my skin.
"Me neither," I finished.
He lifted his head, eyes soft now, vulnerable. "Stay."
17
CONNOR
We lay there in the aftermath, the room thick with the scent of us—sweat and sex and something sweeter, like the champagne we'd barely touched. Mila's head rested on my chest, her dark hair spilling across my skin like ink on canvas. Her fingers traced lazy patterns over my ribs, following the ridges of old scars without asking about them. Not yet, anyway. My arm was wrapped around her, holding her close, my thumb brushing the curve of her hip in slow, absent strokes.
I felt everything.
The steady thrum of her heartbeat against my side, syncing with mine in a rhythm that shouldn't have felt so natural. The softness of her breath fanning my collarbone, warm and even. The way her body fit against me—not just physically, but like she'd carved out a space I hadn't known was empty until she filled it.
It was overwhelming, this quiet after the storm. I'd had sex before—plenty of it, in places and with people that blurred together in memory.
But this? This was different. This was her.
We talked about nothing. Stupid shit. The kind of conversation that floated on the surface because diving deeper right then would've been too much.
"Did you ever want to be an astronaut as a kid?" she murmured, her voice sleepy but curious.
