“You good?” she asks, without ceremony.
“I don’t know what good feels like,” I say.
Kim hums. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch. Just drapes her leg over my hip and shifts closer. I feel her breasts press to my side, the steady heat of her breath on my throat, and it’s like being measured by something holy.
She moves again, slowly, sliding a thigh over me, and suddenly she’s straddling my lap. The air between us charges. Not sudden. Not electric. Slow-burn. Molten. I can feel the heat of her—bare and ready—and I haven’t done a damn thing to earn it.
I want to pray. I want to run. I want to anchor myself in her mouth and drown in the way she’s looking at me.
No fear. No command. Just want.
“Don’t run on me now,” she says, voice gone thick.
“I’m not running.”
“Then touch me like you mean it.”
Her fingers find mine and guide them to her waist. I grip her hips like a man afraid he’s dreaming.
She rolls against me—deliberate, devastating—and I bite back a sound that would echo off concrete. My cock’s hard and aching, pressed between us, and she’s not rushing. She’s learning. Mapping me. Every shift of her hips writes a new gospel on my nerves.
“You always this quiet?” she asks, grinding just enough to make my breath stutter.
“I wasn’t designed for this.”
She leans down, mouth a breath from mine. “Good. Let’s ruin the blueprint.”
She kisses me—slow, deep, consuming. Her tongue teases mine, licking fire into places I didn’t know could burn. When she pulls back, she’s breathing like we just sprinted a mile. Her eyes are blown wide and dark.
“I want you inside me, Tur.”
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Her fingers wrap around me—firm, knowing—and she strokes once, twice, then lines me up with a precision that shreds my restraint.
“Wait—” I start, but she lowers herself slowly onto me, inch by inch, and my brain dissolves.
She’s wet and tight and fuck, the heat of her wraps around me like silk spun over fire.
My hands grip her hips. My claws retract instinctively—because hurting her is unthinkable—and I hold still while she takes me all the way.
“Okay?” she whispers, forehead pressed to mine.
“I might never be okay again,” I choke.
She smiles, slow and filthy and so goddamn beautiful it hurts. Then she begins to move.
There’s no rhythm at first. Just exploration. Rocking. Grinding. Testing how deep I go. I feel every ridge of her, every clench, every gasp she breathes against my mouth.
She’s not trying to make me lose control.
She’s trying to show me what it feels like to give it away willingly.
I bite her shoulder—not enough to bruise, just enough to mark this moment—and she moans like she’s been waiting her whole life to be bitten.
