He releases my breast with a wet pop, looking up at me. His lips are swollen, his breath coming fast. “You wanted to forget,” he says, his voice gravel. “So forget. Just feel.”
He helps me shove his sweatpants and boxers down his hips, just far enough to free him. I rise up on my knees, guiding him with one hand. The broad head of his cock nudges against my entrance, and I’m so wet, so ready, it’s embarrassing. Or it would be, if I could feel anything but this desperate, clawing need.
I sink down onto him.
It’s a slow, burning stretch that steals the air from my lungs. He’s big, and I have to take him inch by inch, my inner muscles fluttering and trying to adjust. A groan tears from his chest, a raw, unfiltered sound of pleasure. His hands clamp on my hips, holding me still for a moment, both of us trembling with the intensity of the connection.
“Fuck, Valentina,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to my sternum.
I start to move. A tentative rock of my hips. The friction is exquisite. I set the pace, a slow, deep grind, because he can’t. His injured leg is braced, his strength spent on just holding this position, on letting me use him for my own salvation. The knowledge of that—his surrender, his gift—unravels something else inside me.
I move faster, finding a rhythm, riding him in earnest now. My hands are on his shoulders for balance, my nails digging into the hard muscle there. His head is still bent, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across my collarbone, my chest. Every drag of him inside me is a perfect, full sensation that builds a coil of heat low in my belly.
One of his hands leaves my hip, sliding up my ribcage to cup my breast again. He thumbs my nipple, rolling it, pinching it in time with my upward strokes. The dual stimulation is maddening.Pleasure is not just building; it’s a storm gathering, blotting out every other sense.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice thick.
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze. It’s fierce, possessive, and so deeply focused on me it’s like a physical touch. His hand leaves my breast and comes up to my throat.
My breath hitches. The touch is firm, but not restrictive. His thumb presses against the pulse hammering in my neck. He holds my gaze, his eyes asking a silent question.
I nod, a tiny, desperate movement.Yes.
His fingers tighten. Just a fraction. The pressure is perfect—a grounding, dominant claim that makes me feel utterly possessed. The coil inside me winds tighter, impossibly tight. My movements become frantic, sloppy. I’m chasing it, chasing the oblivion he promised.
“That’s it,” he rasps, his own control fraying. His hips jerk up to meet my downward plunge, a sharp, deep thrust that makes me see stars. His grip on my throat tightens another degree. The world narrows to this point of perfect pressure, the exquisite fullness, the heat of his skin against mine, the raw, hungry sound of our breathing.
“I’m… Xavier, I’m…”
“Come for me,” he grits out, his voice a dark promise. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
It’s the permission I need. The orgasm crashes over me, a violent, sweeping wave that whites out my vision. I convulse around him, a ragged scream torn from my throat, muffled by the pressure of his hand. Pleasure, sharp and sweet andtotal, annihilates every last ghost in my head. For one endless, shuddering moment, there is only this—the pulse between my legs, the grip on my neck, the safety of his body.
His own climax follows, triggered by the violent clenching of my body around his. He shouts, a harsh, guttural sound, and his hips piston up once, twice, burying himself to the hilt as he empties into me. The hand on my throat gentles, becomes a caress, his thumb stroking the pounding artery as we both shudder through the aftershocks.
Slowly, the world seeps back in. The sound of our ragged breathing. The feel of sweat cooling on my skin. The heavy, satisfied weight of him still inside me.
He moves his hand from my throat to the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. Gently, carefully, he pulls me down to his chest. I collapse against him, boneless, my ear pressed over the frantic, steady beat of his heart. He wraps his arms around me, one hand splayed wide on my back, holding me close.
For a long time, we just breathe.
Then, his lips find my forehead. A soft, lingering kiss. Then my temple. Then, finally, he tilts my chin up and his mouth finds mine.
This kiss is different. It’s deep, yes, and possessive, but it’s slow. Tender. A reclamation of a different kind. It’s a silent conversation—You’re here. I’m here. We’re safe.His tongue strokes mine, not with hunger, but with a profound, aching sweetness that makes my eyes sting.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine. “Sleep,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He shifts us, grimacing slightly as he adjusts his leg, but he doesn’t let me go. He pulls the rumpled sheet over us, tucking me firmly against his side. My head is on his shoulder, my leg thrown over his good one, my hand spread over the steady rise and fall of his chest.
The last of the tension drains from me. The dark corners of the room are just shadows now, not hiding places. The silence is peaceful, not ominous. Wrapped in his heat, his scent, the solid reality of him, the fear doesn’t just feel distant.
It feels impossible.
For the first time in what feels like years, I feel safe. Truly, completely safe. My eyelids grow heavy, my breathing slows to match his. The last thing I’m aware of is the press of his lips to my hair, and the deep, even rhythm of his heart under my palm, a lullaby more effective than any other.
9
VALENTINA
