“You’re perfect,” I say against her thigh, spreading her legs gently. My mouth finds her center, tasting her sweetness, lapping slow and deep until she’s writhing, her hips bucking up for more. “That’s it. Take what you need.” She’s soaking, clenching around my tongue, and I add fingers, curling them just right, coaxing noises from her I don’t think she knew she could make. Briar comes hard, crying out—a sound that’s half-feral, half-free—and I drink it down, holding her through the tremors.
But I need more. Need to hold her. Need to claim her. I shed my clothes, cock throbbing, pre-cum beading at the tip.
“Look at me.” I position myself at her entrance. “Let me see your face while I make you mine.”
Her eyes lift, trusting, wanting. She reaches between us, fingers wrapping around my length, pulling me toward her center. I push in inch by inch, groaning at the tight heat enveloping me. “Fuck, Briar.” She’s velvet around me, clenching and gripping tight. I move in deliberate, deep strokes that rock her body, my hands loosely holding hers above her head, anchoring her.
“Feel that?” My lips brush her temple. “That’s us. No fear. Just this.” She shifts beneath me, hips rising to meet mine, legs wrapping around my waist and pulling me deeper. With that heartbeat, something changes.
She’s not just receiving anymore. She’s asking.
I groan low against her throat. “That’s it, sweet girl. Take what’s yours. I’m right here.”
I ruin her tenderly—long, grinding strokes that hit every spot, my mouth on her neck, whispering dirty praises: “You feel so good.” I’m barely holding myself together. “So good. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
She moans, legs wrapping around me, urging deeper. Sweat slicks our skin, the bed creaking under us as I build the rhythm, soft but relentless, until she’s shattering again, pulsing around me. The weight of it—the permission, the trust—crushes me in the best way. I breathe her in, owning her body while she owns my soul.
I collapse beside her, pulling her into my chest, our bodies slick and spent. My cock slips free, but I keep her close, leg draped over hers, hand stroking her back in lazy circles. “You okay?” I ask, kissing her forehead. She nods, burrowing deeper, but then she shifts, lips parting. A soft grunt escapes—frustrated, broken. She tries again, throat working, but nothing comes. Her face crumples, tears welling as she pounds a fist lightly against my chest, not in anger at me, but at herself.
“Hey, hey,” I soothe, catching her hand, kissing her knuckles. “Don’t force it. Your voice... it’ll come when it’s ready.” She’s shaking now, not from pleasure but frustration, that old cage of silence closing in. I roll us so she’s on top, her ear to my heart. “You don’t need words to tell me everything, Briar. I see it inyour eyes, feel it in your touch.” She whimpers, fingers tracing letters on my skin—Y-O-U-R-S—but it’s not enough for her. She sits up, straddling me again, hands gesturing wildly, tears streaming.
I sit too, pulling her close. “I know, sweet girl. I know it hurts.” Trauma like hers doesn’t vanish with one positive experience; it’s layers, peeling slow. “But look how far you’ve come. From snarls to whispers. You’ll get there.” I wipe her tears, rocking her gently. “And until then? We’ll use what we have. Your hands. Your pencil. Me.” She relaxes a fraction, nodding, but the fire in her eyes says she won’t stop fighting. I kiss her deep, pouring reassurance into it. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ve got time. We’ve got forever.”
She settles against me, and in the quiet, I hold her—my wild girl, healing one heartbeat at a time.
Chapter Nine
Briar
Time moves different in Rafe’s cabin.
Not in days. Not in nights.
In breaths.
In how my body learns the shape of safety without being told.
Those first few days, I slept curled under the bed, knees tight to my chest, blanket wrapped around me. Rafe never pulled me out. Never lectured. Never tried to ease me into the mattress. Hesimply knelt each morning and said, “Morning, sweetheart,” as if the place I chose to sleep didn’t change what I am to him.
But as the weeks stretched, the shadows lost their teeth. The nights started feeling less like danger waiting to happen.
One morning, I opened my eyes and realized I wasn’t on the floor at all.
Now every time the sun rises, I’m in Rafe’s bed, glued to his side, his arm heavy over my waist. My fingers are tangled in his. My body still remembers him. The stretch, the heat, the way I opened and didn’t break. I don’t remember the first time I climbed up. I only remember warmth winning over fear.
And somewhere in those lengthening days, we found our rhythm. Every morning and every night Rafe takes me—slow and deep when I need tenderness, hard and claiming when the old ghosts claw too close—until the line between safety and pleasure blurs completely. I fall asleep with him still buried inside me more often than not, his cock warm and thick, keeping me full and grounded while his hand rests protectively over my heart. Each time he fills me, each time I come apart around him whispering his name, another piece of the broken girl I used to be quietly heals.
In his arms, in his bed, under the steady weight of his body, I am learning what it means to be wanted, not used. Adored, not owned.
My body sometimes still startles, old habits flaring, but then his lips brush my cheek. Slow. Even. A sensation my bones have come to trust, so my heart eases.
And I don’t ever slip under the bed again.
The grunting left me slowly too.
Not all at once—each sound peeled away a layer I thought I needed. The pencil helped. Rafe leaves paper everywhere. He knows I’ll use it when the words press hard against the inside of my throat.
I write more now:
