Demanding truth.
“You,” I cry, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure spikes sharp and sudden. “I’m yours, Rafa. Only yours.”
Something feral flashes in his eyes.
He kisses me like he’s sealing a contract in blood.
After that, control shatters.
It’s no longer slow. No longer careful. The bed creaks against the wall, sheets twisting around our legs as he drives into me with a hunger that borders on desperate. My body meets his without hesitation, chasing the friction, the heat, the dizzying intensity of being wanted this fiercely.
This completely.
I’ve seen men take women like transactions—cold, mechanical, detached. I’ve watched power exchanged like currency.
This is nothing like that.
This is chaos.
This is hands gripping and mouths colliding and breath turning ragged. This is my name torn from his throat like it hurts to say it. This is his forehead pressed to mine as if he can’t stand even an inch of distance between us.
It’s not pretty. It’s not polished.
It’s raw.
Every thrust drags a sound from me I didn’t know I could make. Every rough kiss feels like a brand. His hands are everywhere—my hips, my thighs, tangled in my hair—anchoring me, claiming me, refusing to let me drift away from him.
“You’re mine,” he repeats, almost hoarse now.
And this time, when I answer, it isn’t just surrender.
It’s choice.
“Yes.”
The tension coils tighter, tighter until it snaps.
Pleasure crashes through me so hard my vision whites out. His name rips from my throat, loud and broken, and he follows with a groan that sounds like something breaking open inside him.
For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing.
Then he collapses over me, still holding on.
Still looking at me like I’m something he fought to win.
And I realize the truth isn’t in the dominance.
It’s in the way he refuses to look away.
“Kira,” he groans, his forehead pressed against mine, our breathing synchronized in the most intimate possible way.
“I know,” I whisper back, understanding without words.
We lie tangled together in the aftermath, hearts gradually slowing, reality slowly reasserting itself around the edges of our sanctuary. His arm is careful around me, mindful of his stitches, but his hold is sure, protective.
“Any regrets?” he asks quietly, his lips moving against my hair.
“About what just happened? No.” I trace patterns on his chest, marveling at his solid warmth. “About everything else... ask me tomorrow.”
