He’d never done this before. Had always stuck to the conventional positions, the predictable geometries, the configurations he could analyze and optimize—mostly by watching his lovers’ faces.
This was something else. Raw. Primal. The curve of her spine in the moonlight. The way she looked over her shoulder at him, eyes dark, lips parted.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Oh God, yes.”
He gripped her hips and thrust back into her, and the angle was?—
Different. Deeper. He could feel every inch of himself inside her, could feel her body gripping him in ways the other position hadn’t allowed. She dropped to her elbows with a moan, changing the angle again, and Lincoln’s vision blurred.
His brain tried to analyze it—the physics of it, the optimal rhythm—and failed completely. There was only the feeling of her. The heat. The way she pushed back to meet each thrust like she couldn’t get enough.
She made a sound—half moan, half sob—and herfingers clawed at the sheets. The sight of it did something to him. He thrust harder. She cried out. He did it again and again, finding a rhythm that built between them like pressure rising.
“There,” she gasped. “Right there, don’t stop?—”
He didn’t stop. Couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. His body had taken over, operating on instinct rather than calculation. Her voice rose. He could feel her tightening around him, feel her approaching some edge.
He reached between them. Found her clit. Stroked in time with his thrusts.
Morgan came apart beneath him.
Her back arched, her whole body shuddering. Her inner walls clamped down hard enough to stop his breath. She buried her face in the pillow and cried out—his name, maybe, or just sound without meaning. He could feel every pulse of her orgasm, every clench and release, and it dragged him toward the edge with her.
Then his own release hit, and he stopped thinking entirely.
His hips jerked. His vision went white at the edges. He spilled into her with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere beneath his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t known existed. The pleasure was too big to contain. It overflowed him, left him gasping, rendering him hollowed out and remade.
Afterward, he couldn’t move.
He was still inside her, both of them breathing hard, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. Slowly, carefully, he wrapped an arm around her waist and lowered them both to the mattress, pulling her back against his chest without breaking the connection. He wasn’t ready to let go yet. Wasn’t ready to be separate.
Her hand found his where it rested on her stomach. She interlaced her fingers with his.
The gentleness of it undid something in him. He didn’t have words for it—this feeling of being known, of being held, of mattering to someone in a way that had nothing to do with his skills or his money or what he could provide.
Just him. Just this.
He pressed his mouth to her shoulder and stayed there, breathing her in.
“Hey,” she whispered.
He lifted his head. Her face was soft, flushed, her eyes half lidded with satisfaction.
“Hey,” he managed.
“You stopped thinking.” Not a question.
He took inventory. She was right; his brain had gone still.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.”
She smiled. “Good.”
He rolled off her finally, so he could dispose of the condom. Then he shifted to his side and pulled her with him, tucking her against his chest. She fit there. The specific geometry of her body aligned with his like they’d been designed for this configuration.
Illogical. But true.
They lay tangled together as the moonlight shifted across the ceiling. Her breathing slowed. Her body grew heavy against him.
