“I’ve wanted this,” he said softly, his voice rough with restraint. “Long before I had the right to.”
My throat tightened. “You always had the right.”
He laughed under his breath—like that hurt more than it soothed. His hands gripped my hips, holding me there, keeping me just above him. Not yet. Not fully.
I shifted, and he groaned—deep, guttural. His head fell back. The sound of it lit something fierce in me. I reached down again, slower this time, letting my body explore him, memorizing every twitch, every breath. He was so responsive under my centre, unravelling with nothing more than patience and pressure.
I moved, slowly, with delicious friction. I felt him straining towards me. His breath hitched.
“Elira—” My name, like a prayer. Like surrender.
I could feel him, still so hard beneath me. I wanted himundone.I’d never felt so alive before!
His fingers slid over my clavicle, brushing reverently along my ribs, over my breasts, skimming and pinching my nipples until they were sharp as glass. I moved my body against him, allowing him to lick down over each breast, teasing each peak.
“Tell me if I need to stop.” He said, his mouth on me.
“You won’t,” I whispered.
“I might,” he said, his voice cracking. “You make me forget how to be careful.”
I kissed the corner of his mouth. Then the other. Then finally—finally—our lips met fully. It wasn’t a soft kiss. It was starving.Months of silence. Of stolen looks. Of everything we hadn’t said.
I rocked against him, and he broke the kiss with a gasp, his forehead pressing to my collarbone, breath stuttering as I moved again, slow and deliberate.
“I’m not breaking,” I murmured.
“I am,” he said. “And I don’t care.”
We stayed like that—moving, breathing, hands and mouths tangled—until the world narrowed to this heat, this ache, this rhythm of almosts and maybes. His name fell from my lips like a secret, and mine from his like a promise.
When release came, it took us both in the same breath—heat and hunger colliding, unstoppable and complete.
We unravelled together, bodies shaking, breathless, lost in the same storm of fire and surrender.
No rush. No need to go further. We were already undone.
We stayed tangled—breathless, hearts pounding in sync. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to.
Our bodies had already said it all.
Eventually, when the silence grew softer—less electric, more sacred—he kissed my shoulder and sat up, fingers brushing hair from my face with aching care.
I stared at him, heart stuttering in my chest.
“You’re cold,” he murmured.
Only then did I realize I was shivering.
He reached for his shirt and gently pulled it over me—soft, worn, still warm from his skin.
I gripped the hem, holding it closed. His scent clung to the fabric. It smelled like him. Like home.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmured.
I snorted. “A perfect mess.”
He smiled, brushing a knuckle across my cheek.
