I pulled back just enough to look at him. "You're injured. We shouldn't—"
"I need this." His voice was raw with emotion. "I need to feel alive. To feel connected to you. To remember that we're more than what Riuondo tried to reduce us to."
I understood. This wasn't about pleasure or desire—though both were present. This was about reclaiming ourselves. About defying the darkness that threatened to consume us. About affirming that we were still here, still together, still fighting.
I kissed him again, softer this time, and began carefully removing what remained of his torn clothing. He helped as much as he could, though I could see the effort it cost him. When he was bare before me, I took a moment to simply look at him—at the marks of torture, yes, but also at the strength that remained. The resilience. The love in his eyes.
"You're beautiful," I said.
He laughed quietly. "I'm a mess."
"You're beautiful," I repeated firmly. "And you're mine."
I stood and removed my own bodysuit, peeling away the black fabric until I stood before him as vulnerable as he was. His gaze traveled over me—not with the clinical assessment of a soldier, but with the reverence of a mate seeing his beloved.
"Come here," he said, reaching for me.
I moved to him carefully, mindful of his injuries. We arranged ourselves on the narrow bench—not ideal, but we'd make it work. I straddled his lap, my knees on either side of his hips, and lowered myself slowly until we were pressed together, skin to skin.
He gasped at the contact, his hands coming up to grip my waist. I felt his desire mixing with mine, felt the way our hearts raced in perfect synchronization.
"Slowly," I murmured. "Let me take care of you."
I kissed him as I began to move—gentle, careful motions that built pleasure without causing pain. His hands roamed my body, tracing the lines of muscle and curve, mapping me with touch. I did the same, my fingers ghosting over his chest, his shoulders, his face.
But as I shifted my hips, positioning myself above him, I felt the hard length of his arousal pressing against my inner thigh. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity through me. I was already slick with readiness, my body responding to his presence, to our bond, to the overwhelming need to be close to him.
"Serna," he breathed, his hands tightening on my waist. "Are you sure?"
Instead of answering, I guided him to my entrance and began to lower myself slowly onto him. The slide was exquisite—the fit perfect, as if we'd been designed for each other. I felt every inch of him as I took him inside me, felt the way his body responded to mine. His head fell back, his jaw clenching,and along the connection between us, I felt the pleasure crash through him like a wave.
And I felt it too. Not just the physical sensation of him filling me, but his pleasure as if it were my own. The bond amplified everything—his arousal, his need, his love. It flooded through me, intensifying my own pleasure until I gasped.
"Oh," I breathed, stilling for a moment as I adjusted to the sensation of being so completely connected to him. "I can feel you. Everything you're feeling."
"I know," he said, his voice rough. "I feel you too. God, Serna, you're perfect."
I began to move then, slowly, carefully, mindful of his injuries. But even the careful movements sent waves of pleasure through both of us. The softness of my pelt brushed against his chest as I leaned forward, and I felt him shudder at the sensation. His hands roamed my back, my sides, learning the contours of my body with reverent touches.
Each movement built the pleasure higher. The friction between us was intense despite the slowness, the care. I could feel his arousal overriding the pain of his injuries—his body's response to me stronger than any ache. And my own pleasure was building, my inner muscles beginning to clench around him as sensation spiraled through me.
"That's it," he murmured, his hands guiding my hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm. "Take what you need."
I did. I moved on him, feeling the pleasure build with each careful thrust. His hands gripped my waist, helping me move, and I felt the tension coiling in his body—the war between the need to move faster and the knowledge that his injuries demanded restraint.
I felt his struggle. Felt his desire warring with his pain. Felt the overwhelming need to claim me, to move harder, faster, deeper. But he held back. For me. For us.
"I love you," I gasped, tears streaming down my face as pleasure and emotion overwhelmed me. "I love you so much."
"I love you," he said, his voice breaking. "Come for me, Serna. Let me feel you."
I increased my pace slightly, still careful but no longer gentle. The pleasure was building to a crescendo, the bond amplifying every sensation until I couldn't tell where my pleasure ended and his began. I was close, so close, and I could feel him there too—right on the edge.
"Together," I whispered, and he nodded, his hands tightening on my waist.
We moved together, finding a rhythm that was careful but intense, slow but overwhelming. The pleasure built and built until it was unbearable, until I was gasping his name, until I felt the tension in his body reach its breaking point.
And then we were there—that moment of perfect intensity. I felt my inner muscles clench around him as my orgasm crashed over me, felt the pleasure radiate through every cell of my body. I felt his release simultaneously—felt it as if it were my own, felt the pleasure explode through him as he came hard inside me.
