“No,” he agrees.
We don’t even sayit out loud after that. There’s no need. He leans in and kisses me—unhurried, sure, the kind of kiss that comes from knowing exactly who you’re touching and why.
It’sdifferent than it used to be.
Not lesser.
Deeper.
The bedroom feels warmerwhen we step inside, the city glow filtering through the window in muted colors. This room has seen us at our worst—fear, anger, grief, exhaustion—and somehow it’s also where we learned how to stay.
I kick off my shoes.He sheds his shirt. We move around each other like we’ve memorized the choreography but still enjoy the surprise of it.
“Your hair looks good,”I tell him.
He huffs. “You say that every time.”
“Because every time it’s true.”
I reachup and run my fingers through it, slow, deliberate. He closes his eyes for a second like the sensation still catches him off guard.
“Gods,” he murmurs. “You always do that like it’s dangerous.”
“It is,” I say lightly. “You married a stylist. Live with the consequences.”
His hands slideto my waist again, firmer now, pulling me closer until I can feel the steady strength of him—solid, present, here. No armor. No orders waiting.
Just us.
He kisses me again,deeper this time, and I answer without hesitation. There’s heat there, yes—but also reverence. Care. The kind of wanting that isn’t about proving anything anymore.
We take our time.
Clothes end upabandoned in a trail that makes no practical sense. We laugh quietly when one of us fumbles. He murmurs my name like it still means something sacred. I answer him with touches that say I see you, I choose you, I’m still here.
When we finally come together onthe bed, it’s not frantic. It’s slow and certain and intensely alive. Every movement feels intentional. Every breath shared feels like a promise renewed rather than made for the first time.
I cling to him—notout of fear, not out of desperation—but because I want to. Because he’s mine and I’m his and the world hasn’t taken that from us despite its best efforts.
He braces himself above me,careful even now, eyes searching my face like he still checks for consent in every moment.
“You good?” he asks softly.
“More than,” I whisper.
That’s all he needs.
His cock pressesagainst my entrance—hot, thick, ridged—and I gasp as he starts to push in. The stretch is familiar now, but it still makes me tremble. No matter how many times we do this, I still feel every goddamn inch of him.
“You’re perfect,”he groans, eyes glowing as he sinks deeper. “You always fit me like you were made for me.”
I arch into him,one hand gripping his arm where his scales ripple with tension. His ridged cock fills me so completely I lose sense of where he ends and I begin.
My pussy clenches around him,greedy and slick, and he shudders above me.
“Fuck—Sable—”
I lockmy legs around his waist and pull him closer, gasping as he starts to move. Each thrust is slow, deep, reverent. He’s not slamming into me—he’s making love to me. Worshipping me with every inch of his body.
