Like he’s trying to memorize it—the way my body feels still wrapped around him, soft and filled, like he could stay here and never come back up for air.
Then, slowly, Monty shifts.
His hand slides to my hip, his mouth brushing the corner of mine.“I’m going to pull out, baby.Deep breath.”
I nod, too sore and full and blissed out to answer.
And when he does—when he finally pulls out, slow and careful—I feel every inch drag against my walls, and then the slip of him leaking from me, thick and warm.
I moan at the loss.I don’t mean to.
But he groans right with me.
“Fuck,” he mutters.“Look at you.Dripping all over the sheets.You took me so well.”
He sits back on his heels between my legs, just looking for a moment.Like he’s still not over what we just did.
“I should clean you up,” he says, but doesn’t move yet.His palm drags up my thigh, spreading me a little wider.“Or maybe I should watch you leak for a while longer.”
“Monty ...”I whisper, flushed and still trembling.
He leans forward, kisses my stomach.Then lower.
“You know what this does to me?”he murmurs against my inner thigh.“Knowing I’m still inside you, even after I pulled out?That you let me come inside you, raw and deep and real?”
I shiver.
His fingers part me gently, reverently.
“Don’t tense,” he whispers.“Let me see it.”
I do.
And he groans again, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of my knee like he’s trying to ground himself.
“You’re mine like this,” he breathes.“Ruined.Full.So good I don’t know how I’m ever going to stop.”
Then finally, finally, he grabs the warm cloth from the side of the bed—already damp and waiting.He drags it between my thighs in slow, sensual circles, careful not to press too hard.
“You were perfect,” he murmurs.“You gave me everything.”
He kisses my hipbone.“Thank you for letting me love you like that.”
Then another kiss, lower.“Thank you for trusting me.”
I close my eyes, my body alive with love and ache, pleasure still lingering beneath my skin.
He moves up beside me, wraps one arm beneath my shoulders, and pulls the covers over both of us.
He pulls me into his chest, his hand resting low on my stomach, thumb brushing lazy circles just above where he filled me.
“You’re still so warm,” he whispers against my hair, voice low, already unraveling into something softer.
I sigh.It’s not a protest.It’s contentment.Drowsy and raw and safe.
Safe in his arms, his scent on my skin, his breath slow and steady against my back.
“You okay?”he asks again, quieter now.Not because he doubts it.Because he needs to hear me say it one more time.
