I want to claw my way out of my skin instead, or maybe just into his veins.
"Please," I whisper, and it's so raw, so needy, I'm not even sure it's my voice at all.
He presses forward, the blunt hot head of his cock nudging into me slowly. His eyes lock on mine. He doesn’t look away from me, from himself, from the seam where our bodies finally join.
He pushes in all the way, impossibly deep on the first try. My body bows into his, both hands fisting the edge of the table because I don’t trust my own arms to hold me up. He doesn’t give me a second to recover, another thrust, slow but devastating, and I swear I see stars. This is not a man who fucks to chase his own climax. This is a man who seems personally offended by the idea of anything less than utter ruin.
He moves fast because he wants to break time. Every snap of his hips forces sound out of me. Little noises I can't control, ones I've never heard from my own throat. His hand is on my jaw, tipping my head up so he has to see my mouth, to see exactly what he’s doing to me.
I don’t even have the mental bandwidth for shame. Just lust and some kind of startled awe at how thoroughly he takes me apart. The table shudders with every movement.
I want to laugh, want to weep, want to keep him here in my orbit until the world burns down around us.
His mouth finds my collarbone, bites hard enough to leave a mark, and the sharp spike of pain makes me clench around him so tight he curses, low and savage, into my skin. He doesn’t have to say my name; he owns the moment, every arch and tremor. And when he finally lets go, head tipping back as he pulses inside me, I’ve never felt safer or more unrestrained in my life.
The crash that follows is chemical and complete. He doesn’t let go right away. He pants into my neck, riding the aftershocks, his heartbeat thundering against my chest.
He leans forward, trembling, both arms braced around me like I might disappear from underneath him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Finn
I can feelit the second I walk through the door after my morning jog.
Zane’s quieter than usual, which says a lot considering the man treats unnecessary words as taxable. There’s a calmness in him today. Not relaxed exactly, Zane doesn’t do relaxed, but settled. Everything that’s been wound tight finally got… handled.
Aurora’s at the counter, stirring oatmeal absentmindedly. Her cheeks are pink.
The air in the room is bordering on overwhelming, as if someone turned the humidity up and forgot to mention it.
I stop in the doorway and grin.
Oh.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
I toe off my sneakers and stroll into the kitchen, pretending I don’t smell tension and tea and something else entirely.
Something I knew was coming, really.
Thank fuck I don’t feel quite so jealous about it today.
“Morning,” I say lightly, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
“Morning,” Aurora replies, without looking at me.
Zane gives me a nod that is aggressively neutral.
I lean against the counter and take a long sip, eyes flicking between them.
“So,” I say casually. “Did I miss a town hall meeting? Or are we just practicing synchronized silence today?”
Aurora stirs harder.
Zane moves to the sink. Washes a mug that is already clean.
Interesting.
