"Wyatt," she breathed against my lips, voice already wrecked, desperate in the best way. "I need you."
God, hearing her say that—hearing the raw need in her voice after everything I'd just told her—it did something to me. Made me feel real. Made me feel chosen instead of designed.
I kissed her harder, deeper, tasting the salt of earlier tears mixed with the sweetness of her want, the combination making me feel more alive than I had all day, more human than any revelation about my origins could take away.
My hands roamed—sliding up her thighs, finding bare skin that felt like silk under my calloused palms, soft and warm and so fucking real it grounded me completely.
She moaned when my fingers grazed the lace of her panties, already damp with arousal, the evidence of how much she wanted me making my cock throb painfully against my zipper.
"Fuck, Soph," I growled against her throat, teeth grazing her pulse point, feeling it hammer. "You're soaked."
"That’s on you," she whispered, hips rolling against my hand shamelessly, seeking friction without apology.
I slipped the lace aside, fingers sliding through her slick folds, circling her clit until she gasped, back arching off the sofa beautifully. She was dripping—wet enough that I could hear it when I moved my fingers, feel it coating them, the obscene sound making me harder, making me want to bury myself in her immediately and never leave.
I pushed two fingers inside her, curling them up, stroking that spot that made her cry out my name. She clenched around me, tight and hot and perfect, her hips rocking in rhythm, riding my hand with complete abandon, no shame, no holding back.
"More," she demanded, voice wrecked, nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to sting, hard enough to leave marks. "Wyatt—more?—"
I added a third finger, stretching her, pumping faster, thumb working her clit in tight circles that made her whole body shudder beneath me. She was loud now—moans and gasps and my name like a plea, like a prayer, completely uninhibited in a way that made me want to devour her, made me grateful the suite had thick walls.
Her arousal coated my hand, dripping down my wrist, soaking into the expensive sofa beneath us and I didn't give a single fuck about the damage, about anything except making her feel this good.
She came hard—clenching around my fingers in rhythmic pulses, release flooding out wet and hot, her whole body going taut before melting. I worked her through it, gentling my touches as she trembled, whimpering, oversensitive and beautiful and mine.
Then I pulled my fingers free slowly, brought them to my mouth, licked them clean while she watched with dark, hungry eyes that said she wanted more, wanted everything.
"Taste yourself," I said, offering them to her, my voice barely recognizable, rough with want.
She sucked them into her mouth without hesitation, tongue swirling, moaning around them like they were the best thing she'd ever tasted, and the sight nearly made me come right there in my jeans like a fucking teenager who couldn't control himself.
Fuck.
I stood, stripping fast—shirt yanked over my head and thrown somewhere I didn't care about, pants and briefs shoved down and kicked aside without grace or patience—until I was naked, cock hard and leaking, already desperate for her in a way that should've embarrassed me but didn't because this was Sophie and she made me feel like wanting wasn't weakness.
She watched with hungry eyes, biting her lip, legs spreading wider in clear invitation, dress pushed up around her waist, panties pulled to the side, glistening and pink and absolutely mine for the taking.
I knelt between her thighs, hooked her legs over my shoulders, and buried my face in her.
She was still sensitive, still dripping, and I licked her—slow, thorough, savoring every drop like she was the best thing I'd ever tasted, like I could spend hours right here worshiping her and be completely content.
She writhed above me, hands fisting in my hair, pulling me closer, thighs trembling against my head as I worked her toward another edge even though she hadn't recovered from the first.
When she was trembling again, close to breaking, whimpering my name in that breathless way that made me insane with need, I rose up, positioned myself at her entrance, and thrust in—deep, hard, burying myself to the hilt in one stroke.
She cried out, nails raking down my back hard enough to leave marks I'd feel tomorrow, marks I wanted to feel, wanted to carry as proof this was real.
I didn't give her time to adjust. I fucked her hard—long, deep strokes that made her breasts bounce, made the sofa creak beneath us in protest, made wet sounds fill the room that would've embarrassed me with anyone else but with her just made me harder, made me want to go deeper, claim her more completely.
She was so slick, so open, taking every inch like she was made for this, made for me, clenching around me like she wanted to keep me inside forever.
"Harder," she gasped, head thrown back, throat exposed and vulnerable and trusting. "Please—Wyatt—I need?—"
I gave it to her. Pounding into her, hips snapping with force I didn't bother controlling, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the suite loud and raw and honest. She was loud—moans turning to cries, cries turning to screams she didn't try to muffle, and I fucking loved it, loved that she wasn't holding back anything.
Her release built fast, her inner walls fluttering, clenching tighter with every thrust, her breath coming in short gasps that said she was close, so close.
"Come for me," I growled against her ear, voice rough and commanding in a way I'd never used with her before. "Come on my cock, Soph. Let me feel you fall apart."
