Of everything we haven’t said. Everything we still don’t need to.
Then, voice low, steady:
“Then let’s build one.”
\His lips meet mine and it’s an eruption. Not chaos, or destruction, but an emotional font of pent up feelings exploding forth. There’s nothing left to prove, this is a celebration. A revelation.
There’s less clothes between us. Somehow we wind up in the bedroom. I don’t move.
I just sit there—naked but unshivering—back against the wall where everything started. My pulse is still thudding in my throat from the words we just said. The weight of them. The truth of them.
Tatek’s watching me like I’m light and he’s been in the dark too long.
He crosses the room in two steps. No hesitation now. His jacket hits the floor first, followed by his shirt, dragged up over his head in one fluid motion. The scars on his chest are stark in the low light, a brutal map of survival—but gods, he is beautiful.
My breath catches.
He kneels in front of me and cups my face like I’m something sacred. Something fragile. I lean into it, just slightly, and he groans—like that tiny movement broke him.
“I need you,” he says, voice hoarse.
I nod. “Then have me.”
The kiss he gives me isn’t soft.
It’s consuming.
His mouth crashes into mine, hot and rough, tongue sweeping deep as his hands slide down my sides. He doesn’t ask permission again. He knows it. Feels it. My thighs part for him instinctively, welcoming the weight of him between them.
“Tatek—”
“Shh.”
He shifts, pressing me down onto the floor. The warmth of him covers me. The hardness of him presses thick and urgent against my inner thigh. I reach for him, wrap my fingers around his cock, and he chokes on a curse.
“Fuck, Mara?—”
“You’re shaking,” I whisper.
“So are you.”
His hand moves to my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple until it pebbles under his touch. He lowers his mouth, tongue circling, teasing, then sucking until I arch into him with a sound that could crack glass.
“Stars, you’re perfect,” he mutters against my skin.
I moan and guide him lower. My legs part wider, inviting. His hand finds me there—slick and swollen—and he groans, fingers sliding through my folds before slipping one inside.
“Already so wet for me,” he growls.
I gasp. “More.”
He obliges.
One finger becomes two. He fucks me with them slowly, deliberately, curling until my hips jerk and my breath goes ragged. I’m already spiraling. Already on fire.
“Need you,” I gasp. “Now.”
He rises above me, eyes wild, and lines himself up.
