She grabs my shirt and pulls, hard enough to steal my breath. Not desperate. Commanding. She strips me bare, eyes tracking every inch like she’s claiming territory.
“Now,” she says. “Don’t hold back.”
I don’t.
I push her back onto the bed in one smooth, controlled movement. She goes willingly, spine hitting the mattress with asoft thud, legs spreading without instruction to make room for me. The sound she makes is raw – relief stripped of restraint.
There, Donnelly thinks.That’s what she needed.
I follow her down, weight settling over her, presence undeniable. One hand pins her wrists above her head, grip firm enough to leave no doubt. She arches immediately, body responding like it’s been waiting for the pressure, for the certainty of being held down instead of held together.
“Yes,” she breathes. “That.”
I bite her – sharp, claiming nips that make her gasp and strain beneath me. Not gentle. Never cruel. Just enough to remind her who’s setting the pace now. The bed creaks under us as she moves, needy and unfiltered.
I feel it then – the shift in the room. Someone waking. Someone listening.
Good.
I drag my mouth down her neck slowly, deliberately, teeth and lips working together, giving her sensation wrapped in control. She bucks beneath me, frustrated, aching, and I hold her there, unmoving, making her feel every second of it.
“Still want more?” I murmur against her skin.
Her answer is immediate. Vocal. Unrestrained. “Yes, please.”
Loud enough that there’s no pretending this isn’t happening.
Someone shifts. I don’t look. But Donnelly does.
They’re listening,he notes with satisfaction.Let them.
I shift my weight, pinning her with my body now instead of my hands, knee pressing between hers to keep her open, exposed, exactly where she wants to be. Her thighs tremble against mine, skin feverish where we touch. She shudders, breath coming apart completely now, fragmenting into desperate little gasps that seem to echo off the walls. Every sound she makes fills the room soft whimpers building into something rawer as my fingers circle her clit with deliberatepressure, sometimes feather-light, sometimes firm enough to make her back arch off the mattress.
“Please,” she whispers, the word breaking in the middle. “Please, I need?—“
I silence her with my mouth, swallowing whatever comes next. We’re not even trying to be subtle anymore, and I don’t care. Let the walls carry every sound. Let them hear exactly what I’m doing to her, how I’m taking her apart piece by piece.
I bite her again, harder this time, teeth grazing the tender spot where her neck meets her shoulder. Her hips buck wildly against my hand as I slip two fingers inside her, curling them forward to find that spot that makes her vision blur. Her wetness coats my palm as I work her harder, faster, my thumb still circling her clit with relentless precision.
Her orgasm is violent when it finally breaks through – a tidal wave that seems to start at her core and ripple outward. She cries out, the sound carrying through thin walls, through shared space, through everything Nightshade is trying not to hear next door. Her body convulses beneath mine, inner muscles clenching around my fingers as I guide her through each aftershock, drawing out every last tremor until she collapses, boneless and gasping, against the sheets.
I don’t quiet her.
I don’t slow her.
I don’t try to control her.
I give her exactly what she asked for – pressure, friction, control – meeting her need with something solid enough to drown out everything else. Every sound she makes is answered with a growl against her skin. Every movement is guided, checked, used, her body positioned precisely how I want it.
I draw the pleasure out until she’s sobbing, writhing beneath me, begging me to fuck her, and only then do I slide inside,inch by torturous inch, watching her face contort as I fill her completely.
She’s perfect. All wet heat and made-for-me tightness, her body clenching around me like she never wants to let go, and fuck, have I missed this. Missed her. Missed the way she trembles when I hit that spot deep inside her, the way her nails dig crescents into my shoulders.
The bed rocks with the force of my thrusts, headboard slamming rhythmically against the wall. Someone swears softly from across the room. Bones, maybe. Honey is definitely awake now, her breathing audible in the darkness. Hatchet too, the rustle of sheets betraying his movement.
I lift my head just long enough to see it – three pairs of eyes open, watching intently from the shadows. Not stopping us. Not even pretending to look away.
Good.
