“Mine,” he growls, not loudly, not for show – like a fact he’s done pretending isn’t true.
The word sends heat racing through me instead of fear. I’m not a commodity to be owned, but somehow, coming from him it feels right.
“Yours. Yes,” I agree.
“They can be yours too. The others,” he explains through his clenched jaw. “But you are mine. Remember that.”
I’m his. They are mine. I can live with that.
I nod and wrap my legs around him without thinking, pulling him closer, refusing to be passive even as he takes the advantage. His mouth crashes into mine again, rougher than before, claiming, demanding, pouring every ounce of jealousy and relief and hunger into the kiss.
He releases my hands to drag his own down the length of my body. They’re everywhere, tracing lines of fire down my sides, gripping my hips, digging into my thighs. Each touch is a brand, a claim, a reminder that I’m here, alive, and his. I can feel the urgency in his movements, the desperation that mirrors my own.
His hand pins my wrist above my head, not hurting, just reminding me how easily he could hold me there if he chose to. His breath is hot against my ear when he speaks.
“You don’t disappear on me,” he says. “You don’t give anyone else the chance to think they can have you.”
“I’m still here,” I whisper back, breathless, unrepentant. “And I choose you.”
That’s all it takes.
He kisses me again, deeper, slower this time, like he’s made his decision and there’s no pulling back from it now. Theworld shrinks to heat and pressure and the solid weight of him anchoring me to the bed, to the room, to this moment.
His breath is uneven against my mouth, the restraint he prides himself on stripped down to something rawer and more dangerous. Every movement is deliberate now – measured, claiming – like he’s staking ground rather than chasing sensation. His hand slides from my wrist to my side, fingers splaying there, holding me steady as if he needs the reassurance of my body staying exactly where he left it.
I feel it everywhere: the tension in his shoulders, the way his weight settles, the quiet insistence of him pressing closer, closer, until there’s no space left to question where I am or who I’m with. The jealousy hasn’t burned out – it’s sharpened, turned inward, fused with relief andwantinto something that hums under my skin.
I break away from his kiss, gasping for air, my heart pounding against my ribcage. His mouth finds my neck again, teeth grazing my skin, sending shockwaves through me. I can taste his hunger, his need, and it fuels my own. My nails rake down his back, feeling the muscles shift and flex under my touch. He growls against my skin, a low, feral sound that sends a thrill of primal satisfaction through me.
His hands find the waistband of my pants, fingers hooking into the fabric. He pauses, just for a moment, his eyes meeting mine. I nod, a silent permission, and he tugs them down, his knuckles brushing against my scorched skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He throws them aside, his eyes never leaving mine, and I’m stripped bare, vulnerable, but unafraid.
A beat passes, then I reach for him, pulling him back to me, craving the warmth of his body, the safety of his touch.
His mouth finds mine again, exploring every inch of me, memorising my taste. But this isn’t about gentleness anymore.
This is about certainty.
He fists his hand into my hair, pulling my head back and kissing me hard, swallowing every noise I make. His other hand is relentless, fingers sliding between my legs with a precision that’s almost cruel, knowing exactly how to draw pleasure from me until every thought unspools in the heat of his mouth and the press of his body. I arch up, helpless, every muscle taut, bracing against the onslaught of sensation as he works me apart with slow, sure circles against my clit.
He doesn’t ease up, not when I gasp, not when I break the kiss to bite his jaw, not when I come undone beneath him, shaking and crying and clinging and utterly wrecked. He only growls his satisfaction, kissing me deeper, keeping me pinned and trembling while he shifts his weight, releasing his own boxers in a single practiced motion.
He presses the length of himself against my thigh, hot and hard and insistent, giving me just enough time to realise what’s coming before he guides himself to my entrance and pushes in, slow at first but inexorable, filling me in one unbroken thrust that sets every nerve in my body alight.
My hands return to his back, clutching, dragging nails down his spine while he buries his face in my neck and moves inside me, building a rhythm that wipes out everything but the way we fit together. His energy is raw, wild rage of want that’s finally found its mark, and I answer it with everything I have left, meeting every thrust, every kiss, every demand with a desperate hunger of my own.
The door stays locked.
The room holds.
And when the monster finally slips its leash, it isn’t chaos – it’s certainty.
THE CLOCK IS RUNNING
Breakfast - Dove Cameron
Bones
Our second room feels smaller than the first. Not by square footage exactly, but by intention. Two double beds shoved too close together, a single jammed against the far wall like an afterthought, barely enough space to move without brushing someone’s shoulder. Bags piled beneath the desk. Clothes Honey grabbed from a local shop folded wherever they’ll fit. The air is crowded with bodies and vigilance and things no one’s saying out loud.
