She came with a cry—her inner walls pulsing around my fingers, flooding my mouth with her release, so wet it spilled down my chin, soaked the sheets beneath us. I licked her through it, gentling my touches as she trembled and gasped, drawing out every aftershock.
I crawled back up her body, kissing every inch I passed, until I was braced over her again. My cock ached, leaking steadily, but I ignored it—focused on her flushed face, her parted lips, her eyes hazy with pleasure.
"You're incredible," I murmured, brushing a kiss across her mouth. "Watching you come ... nothing better."
She smiled lazily, her hands sliding down my sides. "Your turn."
I shook my head. "Not yet."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Wyatt?—"
I silenced her with a kiss, deep and claiming, pouring everything into it—the want, the need, the love I'd said out loud but still couldn't fully believe she felt for someone like me. Then I rolled us so she was on top, straddling my hips, her wet heat pressing against my cock.
"Ride me," I said, voice rough.
She bit her lip, eyes darkening, and lifted her hips. Reached between us to grip me—her hand soft and sure—and positioned me at her entrance. Then she sank down—slow, inch by inch, taking me deep until I was buried to the hilt, her ass flush against my thighs.
We both groaned.
She was tight. Wet. Perfect. Clenching around me like she never wanted to let go.
She started moving—slow rolls of her hips at first, grinding down, circling, finding her rhythm. Her breasts bounced with every movement, full and heavy, nipples hard points begging for attention. I reached up, palming them, circling the peaks until she moaned, her head falling back.
"Fuck, Soph ... you feel so good ..."
She picked up speed, rising and falling, her hands braced on my chest for leverage. Every downstroke made a wet slap—her arousal coating us both, slick and messy and hot. I could feel it dripping down my balls, soaking the sheets, the sound obscene and addictive.
I gripped her hips, not guiding, just holding on, feeling her move above me, watching her take her pleasure like she owned it, like she owned me.
Because she did.
She always had.
Her pace turned frantic—hips slamming down, grinding hard against me on every thrust, chasing her release. I slid one hand between us, found her clit swollen and slick, and rubbed tight circles.
"Come for me again," I growled. "I want to feel you soak me."
She shattered—clenching around me so tight it bordered on pain, her release flooding out, wet and hot, splashing against my skin where we joined. She cried out, body shaking, nails digging into my chest hard enough to draw blood.
The sight of her—the feel of her coming undone—pushed me over the edge.
I thrust up once—hard, deep—and came with a roar, spilling inside her in hot pulses, filling her until it leaked out around me, messy and perfect and ours.
She collapsed against my chest, both of us panting, slick with sweat and release.
I wrapped my arms around her, holding her close as aftershocks rippled through us both.
"I love you," she whispered again after, like she needed to say it, needed me to hear it, needed the words to exist in the air between us.
"I love you, too," I said back, meaning it more than anything I'd ever said in my life, even as the weight of what that meant—what it would cost her to love someone like me—settled heavier on my chest. "So much it scares me."
And that, at least, was the truth.
We stayed like that—joined, tangled, breathing together—until sleep pulled us under, dragging us down into darkness that felt safe for once, felt earned, felt like something we'd fought for and won.
And for the first time in years, I didn't dream of war or loss or failure.
I dreamed of her. And us. And a future I didn't deserve but wanted, anyway, wanted so badly it ached like a physical wound, like something vital had been carved out of me and only she could fill the space.
