“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, his lips brushing my jaw as he grabs my wrists and pins them above my head. I whimper against his shoulder as I roll my hips, and he answers with a low, guttural moan as he drives into me with enough force to move me up the bed.
“That’s it,” he praises, voice breaking, one of his hands releases my wrists just to tangle into my hair, tugging gently to tilt my head so he can kiss me again. “You are more beautiful to me than any word could describe; I want to keep proving that to you.”
I whimper, my body already trembling, already overspent, and he feels it. Sees it, and smiles as it ruins him.
“I know,” he says softly, almost apologetic. Then quieter, rougher: “But I need one more.”
My breath stutters. “Lucian—”
“I know,” he repeats, forehead pressing to mine, his voice fraying at the edges. His hand slides around my throat, grounding, possessive. Just the way I need it. “But I need you to give me one more. I have to feel you shatter around me.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, checking in even as he’s barely holding himself together.
“Tell me,” he says, steady despite the hunger in his eyes.
“Yes,” I breathe.
His forehead drops to mine, breath ragged now. Gone is the careful distance. Gone is the patience. “Good.”
My breath comes shallow, my whole body arching into him, into the weight and the heat and the need rolling off him.
His hand at my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse jump and serves as a reminder of how completely he has me.
“Look at you, spread open for me. Taking everything I give you.” His voice drops even lower. “You were made for this.” He groans, hips pressing in like he can’t stop himself anymore, the movement stealing a moan from me as he changes positions, hitting my g-spot and my cervix.
“That’s it,” he growls, devotion and possession tangled tight. “That sound—God, I’ve missed it. I missed the way you fall apart when I touch you.” His grip tightens, steady and sure. “You’re mine again. Every breath. Every orgasm. And I’m not stopping.”
He doesn’t push me past my limit, but right up against it as he watches every reaction, listening to every breath. His body is tense with the effort of holding back while still demanding everything I have left.
“You can let go,” he tells me, reverent and relentless all at once. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
My body is already on the brink, almost undone. I can barely think, barely breathe, my fingers clutch at him like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered.
“Come for me,” he whispers, desperate now. “Last one. I promise.”
I shatter with his name on my lips, the aftershocks ripping through me like a storm, leaving me breathless and shaking and utterly empty. Lucian groans as if it ruins him, following me immediately, his control finally snapping as he presses into me, forehead dropping to my shoulder.
He stays pressed to me, our breathing hard, as his forehead is tucked against my neck like he’s afraid the moment will slip through his fingers if he lets go too soon. His hands loosen, and his steady palms smooth over my skin like he’s putting me back together.
He shifts just enough to pull a blanket up around me, wrapping it tight, cocooning me against him. One arm curves around my back, the other cradling the base of my skull, his thumb moving in slow, deliberate circles at the nape of my neck until the motion becomes a quiet metronome.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs.
I do. In and out. His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek. My body is still humming, every nerve raw and alive, but he reads the tremor and meets it with a steadiness that steadies me in return. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence with words; he lets the quiet hold us, and in that silence, there is an apology that doesn’t need to be spoken.
When he speaks again, his voice is low and careful. “Stay there, don’t move. I’ll clean you up.”
My head ticks off the sensible things I should be thinking, but my body has already decided it’s checked out. Warmth pools where his arm curves around me; the blanket tucks us into a small, private space. I feel boneless and light, like gravity forgot to pull me down.
He cleans me with steady hands and the exacting attention of someone who finally understands that repair lives in the small things. I watch him without really seeing.
You should be careful.Keep your guard up. Those thoughts are sensible and sharp, but they are not the ones that win. My body answers in a language older than thought. Each careful pass of the towel presses against the place under my ribs where longing and fear live together.
When he is done, he takes his clothes off and removes his prosthetic quickly and methodically. He slides back under the blanket and pulls me against his side. I fold around him the way I used to without thinking, naked and unguarded, my head on his shoulder, my leg thrown over him. The contact is immediateand whole, as his arms tighten around me, his body a steady heat beneath mine.
He starts to sing, low and rough. A song I don’t know the words to, but I know the shape of the melody. He hums as his thumb traces the line of my collarbone. The sound settles through me like a hand smoothing a crease.
I count my breaths to match his. Inhale, exhale. The racing slows, and the edges blur. The city outside becomes a distant hum. The room narrows to the warmth of him, the soft scrape of fabric, the cadence of his voice.
