He doesn’t move at first; he just holds there, the anticipation almost unbearable, body pressed between my knees, eyes fixed on mine as if daring me to change my answer. My thighs tremble around his hips and I bite my lip, waiting for the burn, thestretch, the feeling of being overfilled. When he finally pushes in proving I wasn’t. It’s slow, deliberate, drawn out until I’m certain I can’t take anymore but also that I’d die if he stopped. Inch by inch, he slides into me, thick and hot and so much, his hands planted on either side of my hips as if he needs to brace himself against the force of it.
I gasp when he thrusts deeper and my body clenches involuntarily, the pressure making my vision shimmer at the edges. He holds still, buried to the hilt, just letting me get used to him, breathing hard through his nose. His jaw grinds like he’s wrestling himself into not moving, not rushing, but the tension radiates from every part of him. The kitchen lights above us paint his hair gold and cast his face in gentle shadow, and I can’t stop staring: the line of his throat, the sweat beading at his temple, the way his focus never leaves me, not for a second.
He rocks his hips the tiniest bit, testing. It sends a shock through me, heat and pleasure and the bite of being so full, and I dig my nails into his back, trying to pull him deeper even though physically, that seems impossible.
“You okay?” he says, barely above a whisper, voice raw with effort.
“God, yes,” I manage, laughing a little, half delirious. “Just—don’t stop.”
“Couldn’t if I tried,” he says, and then finally, finally, he begins to move.
At first, it’s a slow rhythm, careful and controlled, every movement deliberate, as if this is still part of some negotiation where he refuses to take what I haven’t given. But I want him to take it, want to be ruined by this, and once he knows it—really knows it—something in him breaks loose. His grip tightens on my hips, his thrusts grow stronger, desperate, making the counter rattle and my whole body arch up to meet him.
He leans in, mouth pressed to the shell of my ear, and grinds out, “Your pussy, Hildy, is—” A savage pause; he breaks off, shudders, then tries again, his hands gripping my hips like he’s terrified I’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second. “Fucking perfect. Better than perfect.” He’s losing words, but not intensity, and every syllable feels like it’s branded into me, low and true and wrecked. “So tight, so fucking sweet, I can’t—” He groans, the sound barely human, and it shoots straight through me, makes me clutch him harder, legs locked around his waist, all of me clutching and clinging and wanting.
My name in his mouth is an act of worship. His tongue finds the line of my jaw, like he’s tasting proof. The sensation’s so sharp I nearly cry out, but I bite it back, meeting his rhythm, daring him not to lose control.
He lifts me from the counter and I cling to him, mouths still tasting each others as he moves us down the hall, past Lucy’s room, and into mine, where he lays me on the bed, never breaking our connection.
The pace builds, raw and reckless, nothing gentle left, just want and friction and the drive to get closer, deeper, as if we could fuse. He keeps muttering things, half-English, half-broken, all hot and desperate. “God, Hildy, fuck—never—never like this?—”
I don’t know if it’s meant for me or for himself, but I take it all, let it curl down to the base of my spine, let it erase every story I’ve ever told myself about being too much, or not enough. The world condenses to this: the slick sound of us, the slap of skin, the trembling coil of something huge and inevitable about to break, and the reverent filth of his words, pushing me closer to the edge.
My body is so alive it hurts, so hypersensitive I’m not sure if I’m about to sob or scream. I pull his head down, whisper into his hair, “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”
He answers with another hard thrust, the kind that makes the bed groan, and suddenly we’re both silently laughing, breathless, wild, like we’re not even in control anymore, like the only way out is through.
He wraps an arm around my back, hauls me upright against him so our faces are level. Our noses bump. We’re both grinning like idiots, teeth flashing, eyes locked, the two of us suspended in a loop of pure never ending want.
When he kisses me this time, it’s nothing like before: it’s unhinged, needy, both of us on the verge. His hips jerk hard and fast, chasing something, and I realize with a jolt that he’s right there, barely holding on.
I don’t want him to.
“Come for me,” I say, and the words are more command than plea.
He shudders, shoves forward, and I feel him go, every muscle going taut before he collapses, forehead pressed to mine, breath tangled with my own.
"Extraordinary," I whisper into his chest.
"We can have it all," he murmurs into my hair while holding me tight against him.
Chapter 19
Apfelpfannkuchen
Faulker
Before the door has even clicked shut behind me, I hear the patter of tiny feet racing toward me, as if I’ve kept Lucy waiting for something monumental.
“LENZINNNN,” she squeals, launching herself at my legs without a hint of caution, and I can’t help but find it utterly charming.
Just as I manage to set my bag down, she steps back, her words tumbling over one another, her eyes gleaming with a joy she seems to have saved just for this moment—something I adore just as much.
“I learned colors!” she proclaims, her expression serious as I scoop her up, taking care to avoid her cast. She hardly pauses when I plant a kiss on her cheek, and for a heartbeat, I wonder if I’ve overstepped, but she leans in closer and keeps going, “And letters! My A is the best A! And I made Anna food.” She presses a sweet little kiss on my cheek, beaming as she gauges my reaction.
“I missed you, little one.”
“We missed you too!” Her smile widens, infectious. “Did you know, A is for Anna?”
