One hand cradling her head, the other splays across her lower back, holding her against me.
"Yes—" Her head falls back and I chase it, lips dragging along her throat, her pulse hammering against my mouth. I can feel her heart racing in time with mine.
"You feel that?" I murmur against her skin, but the words mean something different now.
That's us. That's me loving you even though I can't say it.
Her fingers curl tighter into my shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere."
That hits harder than any claim. I pull her closer—one hand fisted in her hair, the other arm wrapped completely around her waist—impossibly closer, like proximity alone could make this last. Like I could keep her if I just hold on tight enough.
"Mine," I rasp, but it sounds different. Less possession, more plea.
And when she gasps "Yours" back—when she claims me right back—I believe it.
Even though I know the clock's ticking. Even though I know we have less than two days.
My hands map her body—ribs, spine, hips, breasts—like I'm trying to memorize her in Braille. She shivers under my touch. Her thighs tighten around me, her nails drag down my shoulders, and I shift my hips up to meet her, giving her everything I have.
"Look at me, Jane," I say as I cup her face. My thumb traces her cheekbone, her jaw.
And when she does, I can see it in her eyes—something that mirrors what I'm feeling. And that makes my chest ache.
"I'm here," she whispers, and her voice breaks on the words.
I want to tell her. The words are right there, pressing against my throat.I love you.
But I can't. Not yet. Not when I can't offer her more than right now. That would be selfish of me.
So, I kiss her again, pouring everything I can't say into the connection between us. My hand slides from her face to the back of her neck, holding her to me.
Then I shift—gripping her hips, changing the angle as I thrust up into her. She gasps, and I do it again, harder this time, finding a rhythm that makes her shake. My hands guide her hips down to meet each thrust, slower at first, deliberate, making sure she feels every inch. Then faster as the desperation takes over.
"West—" Her nails rake down my chest.
I pull her closer, one hand sliding between us to find her clit. She jerks at the contact, and I circle it with my thumb, keeping the pressure steady as I driveup into her. Watching her beautiful, expressive face.
Her legs start trembling. I don't let up—thumb working her clit, hips thrusting, controlling the pace, the depth, giving her everything.
"I've got you," I murmur against her temple, and I mean it in every possible way. "Let go. I've got you."
Her rhythm stutters, balance wavering—a tell I feel before she says anything.
So I thrust harder, faster, deeper, and she comes with my name breaking from her lips. I feel her thighs shaking violently against mine as she clenches tight around me, so tight I can barely move, much less breathe.
The rush of her wet heat soaking between us. Her gasps against my neck trying to catch her breath. Her nails dig into my shoulders, holding on, responding to the love I’m giving her.
Then she leans in and settles fully on my pulsing cock for a single suspended heartbeat. For that brief second, I feel the full weight of her—warm, real, pressed against me—and it steals the air from my lungs.
Then she moves again, and I follow.
Slow, deliberate rolls of her hips. I match her pace, thrusting up into her, meeting her rhythm instead of chasing it.
She’s milking every last sensation from both of us—dragging it out, keeping me right there.
I try to hold the line and stay in this with her but she tightens around me again, slow and intentional, and my control snaps.
I’m gone.
