“I know,” I whisper.
Neither of us moves for a long moment. Just breathes. Just feels the reality of finally settling into our bones.
Then I shift my hips, and everything changes.
He moves with slow, rolling purpose at first—like he’s still learning me even now. One hand slides between us, finding my clit, and the dual sensation pulls a broken sound out of me that I don’t bother to contain.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
The pace builds—his hips driving harder, deeper, fingers moving in tight devastating circles on my clit—and he talks to me the whole time, low and filthy and focused, like he can’t stop.
“That’s it, baby. Take me. You feel so fucking good. So perfect. I’m never going to get enough of you. Never.”
The pressure coils tighter. My nails find his back.
“Come on, Gisele.” He says my name, not baby, not you—my name, like I’m the only person who has ever existed, like he’s been saving it for this exact moment. His fingers move faster. “Let me feel you.”
That’s what pushes me over.
The orgasm hits me in waves so intense my vision whites at the edges. I cry out his name as my walls clench around him, and he follows immediately—burying himself deep with a low, guttural groan, his whole body shuddering with the force of it, his face pressed against my neck.
We lie tangled together afterward, breathing hard, hearts hammering.
He doesn’t pull away. Just stays draped over me, pressing slow kisses to my jaw, my temple, the corner of my mouth. His hand moves up and down my side in long, lazy strokes.
Eventually, I feel him take a long breath.
“I’ve never felt anything like that,” he says quietly. He pulls back enough to look at me, and his eyes are completely unguarded. “I’m never going to recover from you.”
“Good,” I manage. “I don’t want you to.”
He shifts, pulling me into his side so my head is on his chest. I trace patterns on his stomach and listen to his heartbeat gradually slow.
It’s quiet for a long time.
Then, so softly I almost miss it:
“Mine.”
Not possessive. Not triumphant. Just a man finally saying a word he’s been afraid to say, releasing it into the quiet of a room where only I can hear it.
“Yeah,” I say into his chest. “Yours.”
I can work with that.
Handled
Bennett
It’s always fascinating to watch a man who’s spent years controlling everything realize, quite abruptly, that he’d rather be handled. Not managed. Not fixed. Handled. There’s a difference, and it tends to show up in small ways first—quieter locker rooms, looser smiles, a willingness to let someone else take the lead without callingit weakness. Of course, once that shift happens, it rarely stays contained to one room, one chair, or one very persuasive woman. It bleeds. Into the ice. Into the team. Into every choice that follows. And the only real question left is whether he’s going to pretend he doesn’t like it… or lean in.
Playlist: “Adore You” by Harry Styles
She’s already there when I arrive, moving through her opening routine with the same efficiency I’ve watched dozens of times.
The difference is that now I know how she looks without the professional armor. Know the sounds she makes when pleasure takes over. Know the way her voice breaks when she admits she’s afraid.
And now I have to walk in here and pretend I can be normal about that.
