He groaned low in his throat and angled deeper, faster, every thrust a contradiction. Rough and reverent. Angry and adoring. He fucked like he was trying to lose himself inside me.
And maybe he did.
Because when I came again, clutching his forearm, he kissed me like he needed saving.
And when he followed, chest pressed to mine, breath hot at my ear, the only thing he said was my name. Just once.
Like it hurt to say it.
He didn’t pull out.
Instead, he bent to kiss my collarbone, his breath damp and uneven, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a hundred miles through everything he’d been trying to outrun. His lips were hot, dragging slowly across sweat-damp skin, the scrape of stubble adding an edge that made me ache all over again.
“You’re shaking,” I whispered, my fingers threading through his hair, still mussed from my hands and his desperation.
“I’m drowning.”
His voice cracked, the words landing just above my heart. That was the moment I knew: this wasn’t just about sex. This was about him breaking open. And choosing to do it here.
Still inside me, he pulled back to his knees and flipped me effortlessly onto my stomach, dragging my hips back to meet him. The sheets rasped beneath my skin, warm from our bodies, and I moaned as he sank in again from behind, deeper, heavier, heat blooming low in my spine.
He braced one arm beside me, the other sliding down, fingertips dragging through slick skin and between my legs with teasing precision.
“Still with me?” he murmured, voice rough silk against my neck.
I nodded, too breathless for words, my cheek pressed to the mattress, hair sticking to the back of my neck.
“Good girl.”
His praise shot through me like lightning.
He moved faster now, every thrust echoing in the walls, skin slapping skin, his fingers never relenting until I unraveled again. I shattered with a cry, high and broken, clenching around him so hard he swore, long and low, and buried himself to the hilt.
But he wasn’t done.
Wilder hauled me up, bringing me around to cradle me against his chest, sitting back on his heels as I straddled him. My skin was damp, sticking to his; our chests brushed with every ragged breath. His hands settled at my hips, but softer this time, like he didn’t know what part of me to hold onto first.
“Look at me,” he said again, voice like gravel softened by rain.
I did.
His gaze was still storm-dark, but something else flickered there too, something that scared me more than his anger ever could.
“This is supposed to be just sex,” he whispered, and I felt the break in him as he spoke.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to.
He kissed me, slow and deep, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips before I opened for him. Rolling my hips until we were both lost again. When I clenched around him again, he groaned like it physically hurt.
“You’re killing me.”
I kissed the words from his mouth. Then the hollow of his throat.
“Then die here.”
He flipped me back down, hooked one leg over his shoulder, and thrust into me with a rhythm that bordered on worship. My third orgasm hit like a wave pulled too tight, crashing hard, my whole body going rigid as I came with a sob and a shiver.
When he followed, his face buried in my neck, the growl he made was raw. Wrecked. Beautiful. He held himself over me, unmoving, and all I could hear was the sound of our breathing, jagged and tangled in the stillness.
