He groaned.
His hands slid lower, and the kiss deepened again, hunger rising with every breath.
The world outside the bedroom vanished. No dead sisters. No secrets. No threats waiting somewhere beyond the walls.
Just this.
Just him.
Just the slow unraveling of control we’d both been clinging to.
And when restraint finally gave way?—
Kane's hands paused at the hem of his shirt, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle. He pulled it off in one fluid motion, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the faint scars that mapped stories I hadn't yet heard but already ached to know. They weren't flaws—they were proof of the life he'd survived, the strength that now hovered over me.
His skin was warm, taut over muscle that flexed as he leaned down, caging me gently against the mattress without trapping me. He was giving me space to pull away, even now, but I didn't want space. I wanted closer.
My fingers traced the ridges of those scars, light and exploratory, feeling the slight catch of his breath under my touch. He was beautiful in a way that wasn't polished or perfect—raw, like the edge of a blade honed too many times.
I pulled him down, our mouths meeting again in a kiss that started soft but built like a gathering storm, tongues sliding slow and deep, tasting the faint salt of his skin mixed with the sweetness of surrender.
He shifted, his knee nudging my thighs apart with careful intent, settling between them until the hard length of his cock pressed against my core through the barrier of his jeans. The friction sent a jolt through me, electric and insistent, and I rocked up instinctively, seeking more.
A low groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against my lips, and his hand slid up my thigh, fingers digging in just enough to anchor me, to remind me he was here, solid and real.
"God, Ella," he breathed, his voice roughened by restraint, forehead pressed to mine as his hips ground down once, deliberate and teasing. "You feel ... fuck." The word dissolved into a kiss along my collarbone, his stubble scraping deliciously against my skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
I arched into him, my nails grazing his back, urging him on without words. He understood. His mouth moved lower, lips brushing the swell of my breast, tongue circling my nipple with agonizing slowness. He didn't rush. Instead, he worshipped, sucking gently until I whimpered, the sound pulling a satisfied hum from him. His free hand cupped my other breast, thumb rolling the peak in time with his mouth, building the ache between my legs into something molten and urgent.
“I want you,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the edge of a plea. It wasn't desperation; it was invitation, raw and unfiltered.
His eyes met mine as he released me with a soft pop, dark and blazing. "Tell me what you need." It wasn't a command—it was a vow, his hand sliding down my stomach, fingers splaying possessively over my hip before dipping lower, tracing the sensitive skin just above where I throbbed for him.
"You," I said simply, my hand covering his, guiding him down. "Inside me. Now. Slow."
A flicker of something fierce crossed his face—relief, maybe, or the last thread of his control snapping. He nodded, once, and pushed up to his knees, unfastening his jeans with hands that trembled just slightly. The sight of it, that tiny vulnerability in a man so unbreakable, made my heart stutter. He shoved the denim down his hips, kicking it aside, and then he was bare, his cock thick and heavy, curving toward me with a need that mirrored my own.
He lowered himself over me, skin to skin, his weight a delicious pressure as he kissed me deeply, one hand bracing beside my head, the other guiding himself to my entrance. The broad head nudged against me, slick and hot, and he paused there, eyes locked on mine.
"Breathe with me," he murmured, and I did, inhaling as he pushed in—inch by torturous inch—stretching me with a burn that bordered on bliss. He was big, filling me so completely that my body clenched around him, adjusting, welcoming. A gasp tore from my throat, and he stilled, buried to the hilt, his jaw clenched as he fought for control.
"Too much?" he asked, voice strained, his thumb stroking my cheek.
"Perfect," I managed, wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. It was—overwhelming, intimate, the kind of fullness that made everything else fade.
He exhaled shakily, then began to move. Slow, rolling thrusts that dragged against every sensitive spot inside me, building friction like a tide rising. His hips circled on the outstroke, grinding against my clit, sending sparks up my spine. I met him thrust for thrust, our bodies finding a rhythm that felt ancient, instinctive—mine yielding, his claiming without conquering.
Sweat beaded on his skin, and I licked it from his throat, tasting salt and man, my hands roaming his back, nails digging in as pleasure coiled tighter. He buried his face in the curve of my neck, lips moving against my pulse. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered, each word punctuated by a deeper push, his free hand sliding between us to circle my clit with his thumb—light, insistent pressure that made me cry out.
His rhythm faltered for half a heartbeat, hips grinding in deep and holding there as if he needed to feel every inch of me wrapped around him. His mouth found my ear, voice low and rough, almost reverent. “This pussy is mine.”
The words landed like a brand—quiet, possessive, unshakable—and sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through me. I clenched around him instinctively, a soft, broken moan escaping before I could stop it. He groaned in response, the sound vibrating against my skin, and then he was moving again, even slower now, deliberate, each long, rolling thrust staking that claim deeper.
The world narrowed to this: the slide of him in and out, wet and obscene; the hitch of his breath against my ear; the way his muscles bunched under my palms.
Time stretched, each sensation lingering—the drag of his chest against my nipples, the brush of his lips on my shoulder, the low, guttural sounds he made when I clenched around him. It was sensual, unhurried worship, his body learning mine as if we'd have forever to explore.
I came first, unexpectedly, the orgasm blooming slow and deep, waves of heat pulsing through me as I shattered around him, my cry muffled against his mouth. He followed moments later, thrusts stuttering as he groaned my name—low, reverent—his release spilling hot inside me, his body trembling as he held himself deep, riding it out with me.
