I melt into him, my hands coming up to frame his face. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark. "I need you."
"You're hurt—"
"I need you," he repeats. "Need to feel you. Need to know you're okay. That you're here.” His voice cracks. "Please, Jane."
"Tell me if I hurt you." I slide my hand around to the back of his neck, pulling his head down towards mine. He meets me halfway.
It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Hungry. A claiming. My hands fist in the bloodied fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. I pour everything into it—the fear, the fury, the gratitude, the terrifying, burgeoningsomethingI won't name yet.
He makes a low sound against my mouth, surprise melting instantly into response. His arms wrap around me, hauling me onto his lap, and kisses me back with equal ferocity, his hands sliding under my top, seeking skin, warmth, and connectivity.
We stumble towards the bedroom, shedding clothes like obstacles. His shirt, stiff with drying blood, hits the floor. My sundress follows. There’s no finesse, only urgency. We fall onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and heat. West rolls me beneath him, his body a solid, welcome weight. He braces himself on his forearms, his gaze sweeping over my face, down my body, intense, searching. The blood from his nose has smeared faintly on his cheekbone. He looks fierce. Beautiful. Mine.
“Tell me what you need,” he rasps, his voice rough. “Tell me.”
“You,” I gasp, arching up against him. “Just you. Now.”
He doesn't hesitate. He kisses me like I'm the only thing keeping him tethered to earth. His hands aren't careful—they're desperate, claiming, pulling me closer like I might disappear.
He traces the red marks on my wrist with his lips, a silent apology, a promise. His mouth moves lower, down my neck, across my collarbone, worshiping every inch.
His fingers find me slick and ready, stroking, teasing, building the tension until I’m trembling beneath him, begging wordlessly.
Only then does he reach for a condom. He sheathes himself, his eyes locked on mine, and enters me slowly, excruciatingly so, filling me inch by inch, his gaze never leaving my face.
"Okay?" he whispers.
"More than okay." I wrap my legs around him. "Don't hold back."
"Jane—"
"I need to feel you," I say against his mouth. "All of you. No holding back."
Something shifts in his eyes. The restraint cracks.
His next thrust is deeper. Harder. I gasp, arching into him.
"Like that?" His voice is rough.
I answer by nipping his lower lip, "Yes. Oh, yes!”
“You feel incredible,” he pants, his hips rocking against mine. “So perfect. Mine.”
The possessive word, spoken with such raw tenderness, sends a fresh wave of heat through me. There's no careful. No measured. Just raw need and tangled limbs and the frantic race to be closer, closer, closer.
The world narrows to the feel of him inside me, the solid warmth of his chest against mine, the scent of his skin mingled with the faint metallic tang of blood.
He keeps his promise in our protective intimacy. He checks in constantly. A whispered “Okay?” against my ear. A searching look when he shifts position. His hand finding mine, fingers tangling together, anchoring me.
It’s not just sex. It’s a sanctuary. A reaffirmation of safety, of being seen, of beingvalued. Not for what I can fix, or what I represent, but for me. Jane Cooper. The chaotic, scrappy fixer from Boston.
The pressure builds, coiling tighter and tighter deep within me. Every nerve ending is alight. Every thrust sends sparks cascading through my veins.
I cling to him, my fingers digging into his back, my legs wrapped around his hips, anchoring myself as the world narrows to this point, this man, this feeling.
His thrusts become more urgent, his breathing ragged in my ear. “Come for me, Jane,” he growls, his voice thick with need. “Let me feel you. Let go.”
His command, low and possessive, shatters the last of my control. The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave, crashing through me, stealing my breath, my vision whiting out. And in that split second of utter surrender, as pleasure shatters me into a million glittering pieces, the truth crystallizes, sharp and undeniable, piercing through the haze of sensation:
