Simple. Direct. It landed harder than any filthy promise could have.
I sat up, bracing my hands on his chest, and rocked my hips once—slow, smooth—letting him feel how wet I already was, how ready. His cock, thick and heavy between us, twitched against my folds. He didn’t thrust up. Didn’t try to take over. He watched me, eyes dark and steady, letting me set the pace.
I reached between us, wrapping my fingers around him, stroking once, twice, spreading the slickness from both of us along his length. His abs tightened, a faint hiss escaping through his teeth.
“Lia.”
My name in that rough morning voice sent a shiver through me. I lined him up, then sank down slowly—inch by careful inch—until he was seated fully inside me. The stretch was exquisite, familiar now but no less intense. I stayed still for a long moment, simply feeling him throb deep, feeling the way my body fluttered around him in response.
His hands slid to my hips, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above my pubic bone.
I began to move.
Not the rolling, grinding rhythm of last night. This was different—long, slow lifts and descents, rising until only the head remained inside me, then sinking back down until my ass met his thighs. Each downward stroke dragged him against every sensitive place inside me, building a steady, rolling pleasure that felt almost meditative. No frantic chase. Just deep, measured connection.
His gaze never left my face. He watched every flicker of expression, every parted breath, every time my lashes fluttered when he hit that perfect spot. One hand drifted up to cup my breast, fingers circling my nipple in the same unhurried rhythm I’d set with my hips.
“You feel so good like this,” he said, voice low and gravel-rough. “Taking your time. Letting me feel every inch.”
The words made me clench around him involuntarily. He groaned softly, hips lifting just enough to meet my next descent—gentle, controlled, matching me rather than overpowering.
I leaned forward, changing the angle, bracing my hands beside his head so my breasts brushed his chest with every slow rock. Our mouths met again—open, wet, messy in the best way. Tongues sliding, breaths mingling. I kissed him deeper, harder, swallowing the quiet sounds he made as I kept that steady glide.
One of his hands slid between us, fingers finding my clit with devastating accuracy. He didn’t rub fast circles. He pressed, held, then circled slowly—mirroring the pace I’d set. The dual sensation—him thick and deep inside me, his fingers patient and precise on the swollen bundle of nerves—pushed the pleasure higher, slower, like honey spreading through my veins.
I broke the kiss to gasp against his mouth. “Cassian?—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Just like this. Let it build.”
I did. I rode him with the same smooth rhythm, feeling every slide, every pulse, every subtle shift of his hips beneath me. The tension coiled tighter, deeper—not explosive, but inevitable. My thighs began to tremble. My breath came in soft, broken pants.
His other hand slid up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, tilting my head so he could kiss along my throat, my collarbone, the swell of my breast. When his mouth closed over my nipple—warm, wet suction followed by the lightest scrape of teeth—I arched, taking him deeper, clenching hard.
“That’s it,” he whispered against my skin. “Let go for me.”
The orgasm arrived like a slow tide—rising, rising, then washing over me in long, rolling waves. I cried out softly, body shuddering as I ground down on him, milking every last pulse of pleasure. He followed almost immediately—hips lifting in one deep, controlled thrust as he spilled inside me with a low, guttural groan, his fingers tightening in my hair, holding me close through the aftershocks.
We stayed locked together for long minutes, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. His arms wrapped around me fully now, one hand stroking slow paths up and down my back while the other cradled the back of my head.
I felt … held. Safe in a way that made my throat tight.
When I finally lifted my head, his eyes were soft—still dark with satisfaction, but unguarded in a way that stole my breath.
I kissed him once more—soft, lingering—then eased off him carefully, feeling the warm slide of him leaving my body. I collapsed beside him, leg thrown over his hip, face tucked against his neck.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
My mind drifted as our breathing evened out. I pictured us somewhere else. Charleston. The Battery promenade at dusk, tourists and locals mingling, the harbor lights coming on.
Would he reach for my hand without hesitation? Would his fingers lace through mine, thumb brushing my knuckles the way they brushed my skin now? Would he slide an arm around my waist when we walked, pulling me close against his side like I belonged there? Would he stop beneath one of those ancient live oaks, tilt my chin up, and kiss me slow and deep in front of anyone who happened to pass?
The thought sent a quiet thrill through me—and a flicker of uncertainty.
Public displays weren’t exactly his language. He was private. Contained. Deliberate.
But last night … this morning … the way he’d let me lead, the way he’d held me after …
Maybe.
