“You’re already wet,” he murmurs.
“Shut up and touch me.”
He grins.
And then he does.
When he finally lines himself up with me, the anticipation is almost unbearable. I brace my hands on his shoulders andslowly sink down, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s fully inside me.
The sound I make is not dignified.
Neither is his.
“Fuck,” he groans, head tipping back. “You feel?—”
“Incredible,” I finish breathlessly.
“Dangerous.”
We move together instinctively, finding a rhythm that feels like memory. He holds my hips and lifts me, guiding every motion, setting a pace that’s deep and slow and devastating.
Every thrust hits exactly where I need it.
Every sound he makes — rough breaths, broken groans, my name dragged out of his throat — winds me tighter and tighter.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
I do.
And nearly come just from the way he’s watching me.
Not owning.
Cherishing.
I ride him harder, faster, losing control, and he lets me — supports me, guides me, never takes over until I’m shaking and begging and can’t hold myself upright anymore.
That’s when he flips us.
Pins me beneath him.
And shows me exactly how much control he’s been holding back.
He drives into me with deep, powerful thrusts that steal the breath from my lungs, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my thigh, holding me open for him without mercy.
“You’re mine,” he says hoarsely.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I gasp.
His eyes darken.
“That,” he says, voice breaking, “is all I needed.”
He comes with my name in a broken whisper, body shuddering as he holds me through it, and I follow moments later, clinging to him, crying out into his shoulder as the world explodes.
After, he doesn’t move away.
