"Feel good?" I whisper.
"Christ, Ripley. You have no idea."
"Show me."
I start to move, finding my rhythm, chasing my pleasure.
It's different from this angle—deeper, more intense—and I can feel every inch of him inside me.
His hands slide up my body, cupping my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I gasp at the sensation.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Take what you need. I'm yours."
I'm yours.
The words hit me somewhere deep.
Not possessive, not demanding. An offering. A surrender.
This man—this hard, dangerous, powerful man—is giving himself to me.
Letting me take control.
Trusting me with his vulnerability the same way I've trusted him with mine.
I move faster, chasing the building pressure, the coiling tension.
His hands grip my hips, helping me now, matching my rhythm.
Our breathing fills the room—harsh, ragged, desperate.
"I'm close," I gasp. "Levi?—"
"I know. I've got you." One hand slides between us, finding the spot that makes me see stars. "Let go. I want to feel you."
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me, wave after wave of pleasure that seems to go on forever.
I cry out his name, my nails digging into his chest, my whole body trembling with the force of it.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I feel him follow—his groan vibrating through me, his body arching up into mine.
We collapse together, tangled and sweaty and utterly spent.
"Happy birthday," he murmurs against my hair.
I laugh—a breathless, giddy sound. "Best birthday ever."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I didn't even need the cupcake."
His arms tighten around me. "There's always next year."
Next year. The words settle into me like a promise.
A future. Something to look forward to.
