Gone.
All of it, gone.
“You’remine,” I tell her, voice rough, stripped down to something I don’t recognize as the polished version of myself.
She doesn’t hesitate.
“I know.”
Two words.
Unhesitating.
Certain.
They hit deeper than any crowd noise I’ve ever stood in the middle of.
I get her shirt off in one motion and step back far enough to look at her, hair wild from my hands, lips swollen, chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths, the tattoo on her shoulder catching the light. My gaze moves over her with the same attention I give a pitch sequence. It’s thorough, deliberate, and nothing missed.
“Reece.” My name in her mouth sounds like a demand.
“I’m looking.”
“Look faster.”
I laugh, low and rough, and pull her back in.
My mouth moves down her throat, teeth grazing the pulse point, feeling it spike under my lips. She tilts her head back automatically, giving me access, and I take every inch of it, dragging my mouth along her collarbone and shoulder, biting softly at the curve of her neck until she makes a sound that tightens every muscle in my body.
Her bra goes—I don’t remember unclasping it—and I cup her in both hands and drag my thumbs over her slowly, watching her face, cataloging every flicker. Her breath breaks on the third pass. Her hands come up to grip my forearms, and her nails press in.
“More,” she says.
I lower my head and give her more.
By the time I work my way down her stomach, she’s stopped trying to stay still, hips shifting with a restlessness she isn’t hiding, fingers threading through my hair. I get her panties down and off with less patience than I intended. No apologies.
I hold her thighs apart and look at her.
Really look.
Flushed, open eyes, dark and completely unguarded, watching me with an intensity that matches everything I feel.
She trusts me with all of it. Every wall she owns, and there are many, and I know every single one by now, all of them down. All of them gone.
Something slow and certain moves through my chest. Not ego, not the particular heat of winning something, it’s deeper than that—the feeling of being chosen by someone who is extremely careful about who she chooses.
Mine because she decides.
I lower my head and take my time.
Deliberately slow. Primal doesn’t mean careless, it means focused and chosen. I know exactly what I’m doing, and I don’t rush it. My tongue moves against Ava in long, unhurried strokes, learning the rhythm of her responses, adjusting with each sound she makes. She’s extraordinarily responsive, and I am paying attention, the way I pay attention to nothing else on earth.
Her thighs tighten around my head.
Her hands grip my hair.
“Reece.”
