“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Trying to waste what I gave you.”
He pushes those two fingers back inside me—deep, slow, and possessive—fucking his cum back into my cunt with lazy, sensual strokes. The wet, filthy sound of it makes my cheeks burn.
I whimper, oversensitive and still pulsing around the intrusion.
He curls his fingers, pressing them against that spot that makes my toes curl, and leans in until his lips brush my ear.
“Every drop belongs inside this greedy little pussy,” he whispers, voice dark velvet. “I’m going to keep filling you until you’re so full of me you can’t even sit without feeling me leak. And if anything tries to escape…” He twists his fingers deeper, pushing the cum even further inside, “I’ll just push it right back in where it fucking belongs. Again and again. Until your body understands it’s mine.”
He kisses the side of my throat, almost tenderly, while his fingers continue their slow, claiming strokes.
“Be a good girl and keep that cum warm for me, Sophia. I’m not done with you yet.”
13
RETH
Five days. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve buried myself inside her, how many times I’ve dragged her under me, over me, against me, chasing that perfect broken sound she makes when I hit the end of her. And still—still—it’s not enough.
For the last five days, we weren’t people but rather creatures made of need, of heat, of mouths and hands and madness, trying to fuck something out of each other that neither of us would dare name.
Every orgasm is just another hit of a drug that only makes the craving worse. The second I pull out, the second her body stops clenching around me, the hunger slams back in harder, meaner, like my soul is trying to claw its way out of my skin to get back inside hers.
I lie here in the dark like a man balancing on a blade’s edge, forcing my hands to stay still while she sleeps draped across my chest. Every slow, unguarded exhale she releases is like a ghost’s fingers, stroking the fevered seams of my self-control.
Occasionally, she stirs, shrugs her knee higher, tightens her grip. Sometimes I think if I looked down I’d see her fingers fused into my sternum. She’s asleep, and she still holds me like she’s afraid I’ll disappear. And that does something to my insides, lets the soft edges she's managed to expose wither because at some point…I will.
I will disappear.
That knowledge only makes me want to be inside her even more, because those are the only moments I forget that too soon I’ll have to walk out that door without knowing when I’ll ever be able to come back.
Fuck.
I tighten my arm around her, close my eyes. But when I don’t see that front door closing with her behind it, I see my face buried between her thighs. I see her lips part and those flushed cheeks while she comes. It’s like two ends of scale. No matter what I do, I’m always watching the scale tip one way or the other. But while she’s this close where I can touch her, kiss her, make love to her, I choose to focus on that rather than the weight of leaving.
My cock stirs. Goddammit.She’s exhausted, Nazareth. You’ve worn her out.
The reminder helps, barely. I focus on the sounds drifting up from the Paris street below—the distant rumble of an early delivery truck, the soft coo of pigeons, the first tentative chirps of birds greeting the dawn. I try to count them. Try to let the city’s quiet rhythm pull me away from the heat of her body, from the way her pussy is still slick against my thigh, from the terrifying certainty that I could wake her with my mouth and she would let me.
It doesn’t work.
Fuck.
Carefully, I ease out from beneath her. She makes a small, sleepy sound of protest, reaching for me even in sleep, and it nearly breaks me. I brush my lips across her temple, whisper something soft I’m not sure she’ll remember, then slip from the bed.
I reach for my karambit taped to the underside of the nightstand, handle positioned for a lightning-fast reverse grip draw, then walk out of the bedroom, placing it on the kitchen counter.
The apartment is quiet except for the city waking outside, and I drop to the living room floor and start moving—slow at first, then harder. Sit-ups until my abs burn. Push-ups until my arms shake.
I drop into shadow work next—fists up, stance low, the way Rowan drilled into me when I was still a boy learning how to survive. Jab. Cross. Hook. Elbow. I move faster, sharper, letting the imaginary opponent take on different faces with every strike.
Sweat flies. My knuckles cut through the air with audible whooshes. I spin, throw a knee, follow with a brutal elbow that would shatter bone if anyone were actually there. The movement is clean. Lethal. Beautiful in its violence.
But no matter how hard I push—no matter how many ghosts I kill in the quiet Paris dawn—I can still feel her behind me on the bed. Still smell her on my skin. Still hear the soft, trusting sound of her breathing.
My cock is hard again. Aching.
I growl under my breath and double down, throwing combinations until my shoulders burn and my lungs scream.
