“Mhm.”
“That’s — fuck —”
He hums against me and the vibration goes through me like a current. He slides a finger inside me. I’m so wet for him I can feel it on my thighs. He curls his fingers up and finds the spot and presses and works it and I am gone — gone — my hips coming up off the couch, my hand fisting in his hair, the sounds coming out of me unfiltered.
“Jax — I’m—”
“I got you.”
“Don’t stop—”
“Wasn’t going to.”
He adds a second finger. Curls them. Closes his mouth around me and sucks.
I come. Hard. Moaning his name. His mouth doesn’t pull off and his fingers keep working me through it until I’m too sensitive — and even then he eases off slow, kisses my inner thigh, my hip, my stomach.
He doesn’t stop.
He gets one hand on my hip and turns me onto my knees like he already knows exactly where he wants me. Rough enough to make my breath catch. Certain enough that my body follows before my brain can make an argument.
My forearms hit the cushion. My hips lift. I feel him behind me — big hands, warm skin, the heat of his body lining up with mine — and the room goes strangely quiet for a second. Not empty quiet. Loaded quiet. The kind that happens right before something changes.
His palm slides up my spine, slow, all the way to the back of my neck, then down again like he is taking the shape of me in this position and making himself remember it.
I press back against him. That’s all the answer he needs. His hand tightens at my hip.
“Christ, you’re beautiful, Nova.”
My fingers dig into the cushion.
He lines himself up but he doesn’t rush. That’s what makes it worse. The patience. The control. The way he wants me badly enough that I can feel it in every inch of him, but still takes his time like this part deserves to be remembered. The first thrust steals the air out of my lungs. I go still. Not because I want him to stop. Because he is big, hot and right there, stretching me open from behind in a way that makes every thought scatter.
He feels me clench around him and makes this low sound that goes straight through my spine.
“There,” he says, voice wrecked against the back of my neck. “Just like that.”
He gives me another inch. Slow. Deep. Deliberate.
My arms shake.
“Jax.”
“I know, baby. You got this.”
He knows exactly. That’s the problem. He knows when to hold back and when not to. Knows how to make me feel every second of him like he’s not just getting inside my body — he’s putting himself somewhere I’m going to feel tomorrow.
By the time he’s fully inside me I’m breathing into the cushion, his hips flush against me, his hand flat over my stomach like he can feel exactly where he is.
“Fuck,” he says.
Then he moves.
One slow drag out. One deep thrust back in.
My whole body answers him.
There is no graceful way to take him like this. No way to pretend I’m composed. No clever line my mouth can find fast enough to save me.
