Every movement was a slow ache, a steady rhythm that pulled us closer to something I didn’t have a name for. My fingers dug into his back, tracing muscle and memory, grounding myself in the reality of him. I’d never seen him like this—unraveled, vulnerable, undone.
He whispered my name like it was a confession.
And I clung to him like he was the only thing keeping me steady.
“Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he breathed against my shoulder, voice ragged.
“Please,” I whispered back. “Please don't stop.”
He stilled, just for a moment, like the words hit deeper than I expected. Then he moved again—gentler this time, slower, as if he was memorizing every breath I took.
I wrapped my arms around him and closed my eyes, letting the world fall away.
And in the hush between heartbeats, it wasn’t about lust or heat or what came next. It was about the truth of this—the truth of us. That underneath all the tension and banter and guarded walls, there was something fragile blooming. Something that scared me more than I wanted to admit.
Because I hadn’t let anyone in for a long time.
But he was already under my skin.
And now… he was everywhere.
His breath came in sharp bursts against my neck, every movement a tether between us—tightening, fraying, holding.
I could feel him slipping further past his own control, but he didn’t rush. If anything, he slowed down, like he wanted to remember this moment, carve it into the marrow of his bones.
My fingers dug into his shoulders. I was already shaking, already undone, already wound so tight that the smallest touch could’ve unraveled me completely. And somehow, he knew. Somehow, he always knew.
His forehead pressed to mine, our noses brushing, mouths barely parted. Each breath we shared was laced with tension—like a wire stretched thin, humming between us.
“Look at me,” he rasped.
And I did.
Eyes open, hearts bare.
The world narrowed to the feel of his skin against mine, the cadence of our bodies moving in perfect sync, the low sounds he made when he was too close to stop and too far to let go.
I felt him everywhere. In the clutch of his hands. In the heat of his kiss. In the reverence of his touch.
I was falling.
And I wasn’t alone.
His name caught in my throat. A plea. A promise. I didn’t even realize I was crying until his thumb brushed a tear away.
“Daphne,” he whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked.
That was all it took.
The pressure inside me crested, sharp and bright and blinding. My body arched into his as the wave hit—and he came undone right along with me.
His hold on me tightened, like he was trying to anchor himself in my skin, like if he let go for even a second, he’d be lost. We moved through it together—breathless, trembling, unraveling in tandem.
I didn’t know who let out the broken sound that filled the room—maybe both of us. Maybe neither. Maybe it was just everything we’d been holding back finally breaking free.
When it was over, we didn’t speak.
He stayed there, breathing hard, his head bowed as if in prayer. I wrapped my arms around him and let my eyes flutter shut, heart still racing.
