Slow. Torturously slow.
I pressed in, parting her inch by thick inch, feeling every velvet ripple as her walls stretched around me, hot and slick and so fucking tight it made my vision blur. She sighed—long, broken, filthy—and tilted her hips up to take me deeper, meeting every lazy thrust with a perfect roll that sucked me in further. Deeper than we’d ever gone. So deep I felt the soft mouth of her cervix kiss the tip of me, and we both groaned like the sound had been ripped from somewhere sacred.
Our eyes locked. Hers glassy, pupils blown wide. Mine probably the same. Something cracked open between us—raw, terrifying, tender. Like our souls had tangled in the dark and refused to let go.
We moved like that forever. Slow, rolling thrusts that dragged every ridge of my cock along her inner walls. Her pussy fluttered and clenched, milking me with every withdrawal, greedy for the next deep glide back in. I ground against her clit in lazy circles on every downstroke, feeling her thighs tremble, feeling her nails dig crescent moons into my shoulders. She whispered my name once—Ethan—like a prayer, like a curse, like she was drowning in it.
I kissed her throat, sucked the pulse point until she whimpered. Licked the sweat from the hollow of her collarbone. Nipped the soft swell of her breast, then soothed it with my tongue. Every movement deliberate. Every touch worshipful and obscene.
The heat built like a slow fuse. Her breaths fractured into little gasps. Her heels dug into my ass, urging me impossibly deeper. I felt her start to quiver inside—those tiny, helpless flutters that always wrecked me—and I didn’t speed up. I justsank slower, harder, grinding my pelvis against her clit until her back bowed off the mattress and a low, keening moan tore from her throat.
I came like a dam breaking in slow motion.
Long, thick pulses spilling deep inside her—bare, hot, claiming—for the first time. No rubber. No anger. Just raw, pulsing release flooding her, painting her walls while she clenched and shuddered around me, her own orgasm rolling through her in heavy, liquid waves. She milked every drop, hips rocking in tiny, greedy circles, drawing it out until we were both trembling, oversensitive, fused together.
Afterward, she hooked her leg over my thigh, ankle locking behind my knee like she’d never let me pull out. Her pussy still fluttered faintly around my softening cock, keeping me inside her, warm and messy and perfect. I traced her spine with lazy fingers, feeling her shiver even though we were both slick with sweat.
Lying there, her heartbeat thundering against my chest, I understood something that dropped like lead in my gut.
If it had only been the crazy—the fights, the chaos, the way we used to tear each other apart—I could’ve walked away.
If it had only been the sex—brutal, addictive, apocalyptic—I could’ve told myself it was just bodies.
But this?
This slow, filthy tenderness.
This quiet heat that burned cleaner and hotter than any fight-fuck ever could.
This version of her—soft, open, dripping with me—that let me stay buried inside her like I belonged there?—
I was fucked.
Utterly, soul-deep fucked.
And I never wanted to be anything else.
My phone started vibrating against the counter while I was rinsing a plate.
Not ringing.
Vibrating hard enough to skitter toward the sink.
Sage glanced up from the stove. “You gonna get that, or are we pretending it doesn’t exist?”
I checked the screen.
Tony.
At night, Tony never called unless something was on fire.
I answered. “What happened?”
“We’re fucked.”
No hello. No warm-up.
Just fucked.
