"On your back," he said.
She lay back. Spread her thighs. Let him look.
His breath hissed between his teeth. He climbed onto the bed, the frame groaning under his weight, and settled between her legs. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, slick with her arousal, and he paused.
"You chose this," he said.
"Yes."
"You chose me."
"Yes."
He pushed inside.
The stretch was exquisite. She was swollen from two orgasms, sensitive and slick, and he filled her in one slow thrust that drovethe air from her lungs. His forehead dropped to hers. His arms braced on either side of her head, caging her in warmth and muscle and the overwhelming presence of him.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. Drew him deeper. Felt the ridges of him drag against her inner walls, felt her body clench in response.
"Move," she said.
He moved.
Not gentle. Not slow. He fucked her like he'd been starving for it, like two days of distance had built something in him that could only be released this way. His hips snapped against hers. She met every thrust, her nails raking down his back, her moans swallowed by his mouth when he kissed her.
His pace was relentless. Each thrust drove her deeper into the furs, the bed frame creaking in protest, and she didn't care. She didn't care about anything except the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he filled her so completely that there was no room left for doubt or fear or the careful distance she'd spent her whole life maintaining.
"You're mine," he said against her throat.
"Yes."
His hand found her thigh, hitched it higher against his hip, changed the angle. The next thrust hit something inside her that made her vision spark white.
"Say it again."
"Yours." The word came out broken, barely a sound. "I'm yours."
He growled, the vibration traveling through his chest into hers, and his rhythm stuttered. She felt him swell inside her, the ridges thickening, and she knew he was close.
So was she.
Her body was tightening around him, every muscle drawing taut, the pressure building to something unbearable, until finally, she came.
The orgasm ripped through her, deeper than the others, pulling a sound from her throat that wasn't a word or a moan but something more primal. She felt herself clench around him, felt the gush of wetness between them, felt her body try to hold him inside her as though it could keep him there forever.
He followed her over the edge. His hips jerked, once, twice, and then he was spilling into her with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere beneath his ribs. She felt the heat of it, the pulse of him, the way his cock locked inside her as the ridges swelled.
They stayed like that. Joined. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged against her lips, his weight a comfort rather than a burden. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, could feel the fine tremor in his arms where he held himself above her.
His hand came up to cup her face. His thumb traced her cheekbone, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. The touch was impossibly gentle for hands that had killed, that had commanded, that had held her open and taken her apart.
"I should have asked you," he said.
"Asked me what?"
"To stay." His eyes found hers. "I should have asked. Instead of—"
"Instead of being noble and insufferable and making me do all the work?"
