“You climbed on me.”
“Consent was implied.” I bit lightly at his shoulder.
He responded by adjusting his hold — pulling me higher against his back so I was completely supported.
My body still felt deliciously sore.
Earlier — when we had been wrapped in sheets and urgency — he had taken me with an intensity that bordered on worship.
Relentless.
Unapologetic.
Like he was trying to remind himself that I was real.
That I chose him.
Even now, pressed against his back, I could feel the lingering ache — a reminder of how thoroughly he had claimed me.
And yet...
I wanted more.
I always wanted more of him.
We passed through the illuminated garden paths.
Lanterns flickered gently.
The fountain reflected the moonlight like broken glass turned into beauty.
The mansion — once a symbol of power and control — no longer felt like a prison.
It felt like safety.
It felt like home.
He shifted his head slightly.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
I rested my cheek against his shoulder. “About how far we’ve come.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
Then quietly —
“Yeah.”
His voice dropped. “Sometimes I wake up and expect everything to disappear. Like it’s temporary. Like one mistake will erase all of this.”
I tightened my arms around his neck. “It’s not temporary.”
His hand squeezed my thigh gently.
