Then—he slides in.
Thick. Deep. Filling.
I cry out—sharp and broken.
He stills, buried to the hilt.
“Mara,” he breathes. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
“Move.”
He does.
Each thrust is slow, powerful, grinding me into the floor. My nails dig into his back, marking him. He buries his face in my neck, biting lightly as he picks up speed, each motion deeper, rougher, driving me closer to the edge.
“Mine,” he snarls.
“Yes,” I gasp.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
He slams into me, again and again, until I shatter—legs locking, body convulsing around him with a cry that echoes off the walls.
He follows with a shout, pulsing deep inside me as he thrusts through it, milking every last wave.
When it’s done, he doesn’t pull away.
He shifts to the side, cradling me against his chest, still inside me. Neither of us speaks. Our breathing is the only sound, ragged and slowly syncing. I drag my fingers across his spine, feeling each muscle twitch in response—his body still strung tight with aftershocks.
His hand strokes down my thigh, then back up to the curve of my hip. His touch is reverent, almost hesitant now, like he’s still convincing himself this is real. I kiss his shoulder—soft, open-mouthed. He shivers.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, words still stuck somewhere in my chest.
His fingers comb through my hair, slow and soothing. “Did I hurt you?”
I laugh, breathless. “You wrecked me. In the best possible way.”
A slow smile spreads across his face. He shifts beneath me, pulling out with a groan that punches low through my gut. I’m sore. Already. But I don’t move. I don’t want distance.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
He cups my face again, thumb brushing my lower lip. “You were... everything.”
“So were you.”
We lie there a while longer. I trace his collarbone with one finger. He skims circles along my waist. The quiet is thick, but not heavy.
It’s peace.
And gods, I didn’t know how much I needed that.
Eventually, he shifts, rolling us gently so I’m under him again. He kisses my throat, my chest, lower. When his mouth finds me, I gasp—sensitive, overstimulated—but he’s patient. Tender. His tongue is slow and deliberate, working me open again until I’m panting and gripping his hair.
