“Delaney,” he breathes. “Don’t make me pin your wrists above your head and drag you through another one, begging.”
My breath stutters. “I…”
He catches my jaw, tilting my face toward his.
“Look at me.”
I do.
I can’t not.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, rougher now. “You want more.”
Not a question.
“Yes,” I whisper.
A curse rips out of him.
“Then I’m going to build you up slow this time. So slow you won’t know if you want to climb into my arms or crawl out of your skin.”
He straightens just enough to shove his jeans and boxers down and kick them away, the mattress dipping with the movement. When he settles between my thighs again, there’s nothing left between us but heat and the thin thread of his control.
His hand slides beneath me, angling me where he wants me, guiding my body exactly how he chooses. He hovers at my entrance, his thick, throbbing erection nudging me.
He rocks forward just enough to test a fraction of me. His eyes never leave my face, scanning every twitch, every lip bite, every panicked drag of breath as I fight not to clench and whimper right away.
I realize, blushing, that he’s right.
I am already begging, and all I can do about it is swallow hard and let his name tumble out, rough and desperate.
He doesn’t give it to me, not at first. He takes his time, tracing circles with the hand braced at my hip, the other bracketing my jaw, holding me open, keeping me exactly where I am so I feel every careful inch as he presses inside.
It’s maddening how slow he goes, how meticulously he resists until I can’t tell if the ache in my chest is want or need or some hybrid that burns hotter than both.
“Fuck,” he grits, “you feel…”
He cuts himself off with a moan, twisting his hips just enough to make me gasp. Every inch is a war. He’s stubborn, I’m desperate, and both of us are greedy as hell.
"Just like that," I pant, no pride, no filter, the way his hand curves under my jaw, an anchor to whatever is left of my self-control.
He holds me between the want and the reward, with a patience I could never fake. Every muscle in my body is knotting under his measured push, and when he finally bottoms out, I lose the fight against the noise in my throat. It’s not a scream, but it’s not a fucking secret, either. His laughter is hungry and close to my ear. “Knew you could take it.”
I’m dizzy, nails carving wild hieroglyphs down his arms, trying to make him move, and terrified of what’ll happen if he does. But he waits.
He wants me to say something, I realize, even as I’m still blinking white sparks off my lashes. Wants words, not just the wrecked sounds spilling out of me.
Maybe he’s waiting for “more,” maybe he wants me to beg, but all I can manage is, “Don’t fucking stop,” so I say it again, and again, until my own voice sounds like a stranger’s.
He’s trembling against me, barely, but I can feel it, and the way his breath shivers through my hair tells me he’s just as close to feral as I am.
He bends down, the scratch of his stubble lighting my whole jaw on fire, and says right into my ear, “Look at you.”
It isn’t a question, or even a command. It’s just a fact. I am all over him, exposed and hungry and ruined. He can see it, and he’s not going to let me pretend otherwise.
His hands slide down my hips, blunt fingertips digging into muscle like he’s worried I’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on.
The friction is unreal. Every drag and slide is tight enough that the edges blur, every slow retreat a mythic pull, a wound.
