I place my palm next to hers on the tile. My lips brush the shell of her ear. “I need you too much to go easy on you right now.”
“Then take it,” she whispers. “Take whatever you need from me, my love.”
I groan at her words, snaking my other hand between her thighs to find her already wet. This is my proof that she wants me as much as I want her.
I stroke my fingers up from her slit to her clit, rubbing circles around it as I shift my hips forward just enough to nudge at her entrance. She shudders, shoving back against me on instinct. I thrust forward at the same time, just enough to push the head of my cock inside of her. Aroused as she is, it’s still a tight fit and I regain just enough of my senses to worry about hurting her.
However, all plans to slow down eviscerate when she reaches around to grab my dick and give it a squeeze. “I thought you said you needed me.”
“Fuck,” I groan as she rubs me and slowly pushes more of me inside of her. My hand falls to her hip, trying to stop her, but the expression on her face silences me—she’s looking at me like this is what she needs too. Like I’m hers to fuck because sheownsme too.
Restraint be damned, I’ll give her what she wants.
I press into her, desperate, my mouth finding hers over her shoulder, swallowing her gasp as I claim her—delirious by want, undone by the simple fact that she is here, and she is mine.
My thrusts speed up and she drops her head while pushing against me, panting. “It’s yours, my love. Take it.”
I allow myself to get lost in her while she whines and begs for more. I give it to her, pinching her clit between my fingers and pistoning my hips forward.
I lean back just enough to stare down at what I’m doing to her, watching my straining dick disappear into her tight pussy, loving the way she makes my skin glisten with the evidence of her arousal.
In this moment, there is nothing that is more important than this. Not even breathing. My entire world has whittled down to our connection.
I feel her pussy clamping down on me as her cries grow more frantic. I know she’s on the precipice, and I follow her—losing my pace, my rhythm, and my mind as I plunge us both into oblivion.
By the timewe make it back to bed, the world has softened around the edges.
Olivia’s curled into me beneath the covers, her body warm and pliant, dressed in one of my shirts that hangs loose on her frame. The sight of it alone sends something tender and possessive twisting through me. She didn’t ask before slipping into my closet, hadn’t hesitated to choose what she wanted and make it hers. That simple ease—her assumption that my things belong to her as much as they belong to me—pleases me more than I can say.
Before this, she had coaxed me into the kitchen, insisting I eat something. I would have resisted longer—left to my own devices, I would have brushed it off entirely—but then she reminded me she hadn’t eaten yet either. That alone undid myprotest. Her well-being is the one thing I will never compromise on.
Even so, the moment we stepped into the kitchen, I tried to take charge.
My hands were already reaching for bread, for plates, for anything I could put in front of her. But she stopped me with a firm look, insisting that she would be the one to make lunch. I tolerated it only because she indulged me—she let me follow her around the kitchen like a shadow. Close enough to steady the plate when she reached for the mustard and to brush my fingers across the back of her hand under the pretense of passing her a knife. She caught me at it more than once, smiling over her shoulder, soft and knowing, and I let her see every ounce of my affection in return.
As we ate, she explained why she’d gone back to her dorm earlier. I had known, logically, that her duffle must still have been there from yesterday. She thought she was being considerate—letting me rest, certain she would be back before I even stirred. But the memory of waking to cold sheets, of believing she was gone, has not released its grip on me.
She said she left me a message, and she had. I confirmed it when I finally forced myself to check my phone. But how could she expect me to look there first, when every instinct in me had already begun grieving her absence?
Now, her head rests on my chest, her fingers curled lightly against my side, and she lets me keep her pressed close.
Every few moments I kiss her hair, her temple, her knuckles—greedy in the small ways, unwilling to stop touching her, unwilling to test the limits of this fragile peace. She humors me, leaning into my need, allowing me to be as clingy as I like. It soothes something frayed in me, the silence filled with nothing but the rhythm of her breathing and the occasional hum of approval when I kiss her again.
I’m close to dozing off when her voice breaks the quiet, soft but steady. “Nate… Can I ask you something?”
“Hmm?”
She hesitates. The pause stretches, too long, and my body goes taut beneath her. Sleep evaporates. I tilt my head to look down at her, brushing my lips against her hair. “What is it, baby?”
“Earlier…” she says at last. “In the shower. I’ve never seen you like that before.”
My jaw tightens. I school my voice into something low, edged with dismissal. “It happens sometimes. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
Her hand moves slowly across my chest, tracing idle circles, as if she can coax the truth out with touch alone. “It didn’t look like nothing.”
I close my eyes, fighting the instinct to keep the words caged. I don’t want her to see me fractured, not when I’ve built myself into the man who can hold her, protect her, worship her without faltering. But the silence stretches, and her thumb presses lightly against my sternum—steady, patient.
My voice comes out rough, reluctant. “I was having a panic attack. Part of the fallout after the avalanche, my psychologist explained.” I sigh. “They used to come often, back then. It’s been almost a year since the last one.”
