Pull her back against my chest. Her body molds to mine—familiar now, the shape of her fitting the shape of me like something designed rather than discovered. Both of us on our sides. I'm still hard—enough—but this isn't about that anymore.
This is about holding her. Being close.Making this last.
I enter her from behind. Slow. Careful. Gentle.
She sighs. A soft, exhausted sound that goes straight to the center of my chest andstaysthere.
"Okay?"
"More than okay." Her voice is sleepy. Sated. The voice of a woman who's been thoroughly ruined and knows it. "Don't stop."
I won't. Not yet.
I move slowly. Lazy thrusts. No urgency. Just the feeling of being inside her. Connected. Close. The slick slide of skin. The rhythm of her breathing deepening against the pillow.
My hand slides up to cup her breast. Not rough this time. Tender. Reverent. My thumb brushes over her nipple with the kind of patience I didn't know I possessed.
These hands have fought. Have bled. Have gripped a stick so hard the tape split. And right now, they're the gentlest they've ever been.
She shivers.
"Cold?"
"No. Just—" She presses back against me, fitting closer. "You."
Earlier I spanked her. Denied her. Took her against a wall hard enough to rattle the frame on the dresser. Now I need to remind her I can be this too. Soft. Careful.
Loving.
Even if I can't say the word.
"I could stay inside you all night," I murmur against the curve of her neck. Feeling her pulse beat slow and steady against my lips.
"I wish you could."
The weight of tomorrow crashes over both of us. Planes. Airports. Distance. Real life waiting like cold water on the other side of this door.
"Me too."
I keep moving. Slow, rolling thrusts. My hand drifts down from her breast—over her ribs, the dip of her waist, the soft swell of her hip—then between her legs. Finding her clit. Circling gently.
"West—I don't know if I can—"
"Shh." I kiss the spot behind her ear where her pulse thrums. "Just feel it. No pressure."
But her body responds anyway. Building slowly. Softly.A completely different kind of climb than the others—no urgency, no desperation. Just warmth gathering. Expanding. Like sunrise instead of lightning.
I keep moving inside her. Keep circling with gentle, patient pressure. Kissing her shoulder. The nape of her neck. The ridge of her spine.
"That's it. Just let go."
She does.
Quietly this time. No screaming. No thrashing. Just a soft, shuddering release that ripples through her entire body like a wave moving through still water. She clenches around me gently—rhythmic, involuntary—and sighs my name like it's the answer to a question she's been asking her whole life.
I stay inside her after. Don't move. Just hold her while she comes down, feeling her heartbeat decelerate against my chest, her breathing slow and deepen.
She's completely spent. Her body goes limp in my arms—trusting, defenseless, entirely mine.
