Like I’d bled for it.
Because I would.
I’d burn the world for another second of this.
She was shaking. Writhing. Whimpering.
And I didn’t let up.
Didn’t slow down.
Didn’t show mercy.
I slid two fingers along the inside of her thigh—not touching her where she wanted me to, not yet—just enough to let her feel how close I was to taking more.
Let her know she was standing at the edge of the fucking cliff.
“You feel that?” I growled into her, voice muffled by flesh and need. “That’s what it’s like when you’re mine.”
And she was.
Whether she admitted it or not, whether she begged me or ran—I’d already tasted the truth.
She belonged to me.
The heat in her core, the trembling in her thighs, the soft cries she tried to swallow down—that was ownership.
Not flowers.
Not love notes.
Not whispered I-want-yous in the dark.
This. This was how I claimed her.
And I wasn’t stopping until she fell apart all over my tongue, until she shattered and gave me everything.
Every piece. Every breath. Every damn sound.
This wasn’t romance.
This was a fucking reckoning.
She tensed beneath me, every muscle in her body pulling tight like a live wire about to snap.
I could feel her unraveling—taste it—sweet, raw, and pure on my tongue.
And when she shattered?
Fuck.
It wasn’t loud.
It was a quiet, trembling quake that tore through her—her breath hitched, spine arched off the bar, and her legs tried to close around my head like she couldn’t stand the intensity.
Too bad.
I held her open. Kept my mouth locked to her like she was the only goddamn thing keeping me alive.
