I want to snap something sarcastic. I open my mouth to try.
He rolls his hips, just once, slow and deep, and the words die in a gasp.
He smiles against my neck. Smug bastard.
Then he starts moving. In steady, unhurried strokes that drag every ridge along every sensitive place like he’s taking inventory. Each time he bottoms out he grinds a fraction harder, pressing in until I feel the blunt nudge deep inside, then pulls back almost all the way before sliding home again. The rhythm is patient.
Mercilessin how patient it is.
My legs wrap around his waist. He hooks one arm under my knee, opens me wider, changes the angle so the next stroke hits higher, sharper. I arch hard.
My nails rake down his back—deeper this time. I feel the skin give under my fingertips, feel him hiss through his teeth, feel his cock jump inside me in response.
“Fuck,” he breathes. First real crack in the calm.
I smile against his shoulder even as my body starts to tremble.
He retaliates by shifting his weight, pinning me more fully to the mattress. His free hand slides up my side, cups my breast, thumb circlingthe nipple once, twice, then pinching just hard enough to make me clench around him.
I whimper.
He kisses me then, deep, lazy, tongue sliding against mine like we have all night. His mouth tastes like mint and him. I kiss him back harder than I mean to, teeth catching his lower lip, tugging until he groans into my mouth.
When he pulls back his eyes are dark, pupils blown. “You want it harder?”
I shake my head. “No. Just… like this.”
His expression shifts, something softer, possessive, pleased. “Then like this.”
He keeps the rhythm exactly the same—deep, rolling, controlled, but now every stroke feels heavier, more dintentional, like he’s carving space inside me for himself.
My hands slide up into his hair, tugging the damp strands, holding his mouth to mine while he fucks me slow and thorough.
The build is quiet. Insidious. It creeps up through my thighs, my belly, my chest, until I’m shaking under him, breath coming in short, helpless pants against his lips.
He feels it.Knowsit.
His hand leaves my breast, slides down between us, finds my clit with the pad of his thumb. Circles once, light, then presses firmer, matching the rhythm of his hips.
I break on a sob. The orgasm rolls through me slow and shattering, long waves that keep cresting, pulling me under, making my whole body lock and flutter around him. My nails dig in again, hard, fresh red lines down his shoulder blades.
He groans low, hips stuttering once, then twice, and then he’s coming too, deep, pulsing, spilling inside me while his mouth finds mine again, swallowing the last of my broken sounds.
He doesn’t pull out. He lowers his weight carefully, still buried, softening inside me. His arms come around me—one banded low across my back, the other cradling the back of my head so my face is tucked into his neck. I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and strong, slowing now.
My legs are still wrapped around him. The sheets are already a twisted mess around us, half off the mattress, one pillow shoved against the headboard. I don’t care.
He presses a kiss to my temple. Then another, lower, against the shell of my ear.
“Mine,” he says. Quiet. Smug. Certain.
I don’t argue.
I just turn my face into his throat, taste salt and skin, and let myself sink into the heavy, warm sprawl of him holding me like he has nowhere else to be.
The room smells like us. I feel boneless already. Oversensitive. Wrecked in the best way.
Andsafe.
