“Thenmove,” he snaps.
So I do.
I start to thrust—deep and rough, hips snapping against his ass, the sound of our bodies slapping together loud in the room. There’s no slow build, no gentle warm-up. He told me not to hold back, and I won’t. He takes everything I give him and begs for more.
His legs wrap around my waist, heels digging in, dragging me deeper with every stroke.
“Harder,” he snarls.
I give it to him—grinding deep, angling my hips just right until he throws his head back andshouts.
“Right there—fuck, Rangi—yes.”
He scratches my back, and I moan, driving into him again, again, again, until it feels like we’re one raw nerve stretched to snapping.
We kiss like we’re starving, mouths open, gasping against each other. His cock is trapped between us, leaking against my stomach, rock hard and untouched. I reach between us, fisting him hard enough to make him cry out with pleasure.
“I wanna make you come like this,” I pant, my rhythm stuttering. “Just from my cock inside you.”
He nods, mouth slack, lost in it. “Don’t stop. Fuck—don’t stop.”
So I don’t.
I fuck him like I’ve never wanted anything more, pounding into him with a rhythm that borders on punishing, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside him.
And then he breaks.
His body tenses, his breath catches, and then he’s coming—hard—spurting between us with a hoarse cry, dragging me over the edge with him.
I come with a growl, hips jerking, stars bursting behind my eyes as I spill inside him, buried deep, nothing held back.
We collapse into each other, a mess of sweat and cum and gasping breaths, muscles trembling with the aftermath.
I don’t pull out right away. I stay where I am, still inside him, forehead resting against his.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper.
He huffs a breath, arms wrapping around me. “Next time,you’rethe one begging.”
I wrap my arms around him to keep him close. After a while, he shifts to lie beside me, one arm draped across my chest possessively.
“Feeling better?” I ask, teasing him.
He laughs, turning to face me. “Remarkably so. You should considering offering a paid stress relief service. You’d make a fortune.”
I growl playfully, pulling him closer. “This is an exclusive service, Your Highness. Extremely limited clientele.”
“How limited?” he asks, but there’s a thread of vulnerability in his voice.
I soften, tracing his jawline with gentle fingers, hoping to soothe away his doubts. “Just one. Just you, Leo.”
“Good,” he says, kissing me. “Because I’m not good at sharing.”
Leo shifts until his head rests on my chest, one arm slung across my stomach, his breathing slowly evening out. I stroke a hand through his hair, gentle and steady, and feel him start to drift.
And I watch him.
His brow relaxes. The tension bleeds from his body. He looks younger like this, softer. Beautiful in a way that steals the breath from my lungs.
