Page 38 of Gunnar

The permission sends me over the edge. I cry out for him as I come apart, my pussy clenching and fluttering in waves of intense pleasure. He groans, the sound torn from deep in his chest as he buries himself to the hilt and follows me over, spilling hot and deep inside me.

“Fuck, Devyn…” He collapses over me with his face buried in the curve of my neck, his weight pressing me into the mattress. We lie there, satiated and still, our ragged breaths filling the otherwise silent room.

When he lifts his head, his eyes meet mine with a softness that contrasts with the sharp roughness of how he just claimed me. Staring down at me, he brushes a strand of hair from my face. His touch is so gentle that it’s almost reverent. “Mine,” he whispers, the previously possessive claim now sounding more like a vow. “Say it again.”

“Yours,” I whisper back, scaring myself at how deeply I feel it.

The clouds shift, letting the morning light spill through the blinds in thin, golden strips, painting stripes across the bed. Devyn is curled against my chest, her back pressed to my sternum, and her ass nestled against my groin. Her breathing is deep and even, sleep having taken her as hard as I did. Her chestnut hair is tangled across the pillow, spilling over my bicep, which is wrapped it around her.

We’ve been like this for nearly an hour as I’ve listened to the sweet sounds of her slumber and watched the light dance over the highlights in her hair. I need to get up and return to the root of why we’re here—searching for her stalker—but I hate the thought of disturbing her.

I shift carefully, easing my arm out from beneath her head. She stirs, a small murmur of protest escaping her lips when my warmth recedes. Her eyes flutter but don’t open as her hand reaches out for me. “Shh,” I whisper, leaning down to press my lips to her forehead. “Go back to sleep, baby girl.”

She makes a sleepy, discontented noise, turning toward me. The sheet slips down, exposing the curve of her breast and a mark I don’t remember leaving on her collarbone. My cock stirs at the sight, and I fight the urge to climb over her and take her again before she fully wakes.

“Shower,” I drone against her temple, running my thumb along her jaw. “I’m going to shower. You can join me if you wake up, or stay here and rest. Your choice.” She nods sleepily, and I force myself to get up, swinging my legs over the side of the mattress. The floor is cool beneath my feet. I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache of exertion and the pull of muscles well-worked.

After quietly making my way into the bathroom, I turn the water on hot, letting the steam build up before I step under the spray. It hits my shoulders, and I tilt my head back, letting it wash over me. I run my hands through my hair and down my face, trying to clear my head, but the thoughts of her are relentless.

The glass door of the shower opens, and a breath of hesitation passes before she steps in. Her hair is wildly tangled, and her eyes are still heavy. The steam swirls, cocooning around her naked body. She’s fucking beautiful. “Hey,” she mumbles, her voice rough from sleep.

My hands find her waist, and I pull her into me. Her skin is cool from the air-conditioned bedroom, a shocking contrast to the heat of the water and my own body. She sucks in a sharp inhale when we connect, her breasts pressing against my chest and stomach against my cock.

“Hey,” I parrot gravelly, cupping her face in my hands and tilting her face toward mine. Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for regret or second thoughts. Neither of which she will find. I have zero regrets about claiming her. In my eyes, all she will find is hunger, possession, and the same fierce need that consumed me hours ago.

Dipping my head, I press my lips to hers. It’s slow and exploratory, learning the feel of her again. It deepens quickly—as though inevitable—my tongue sweeping past her lips. She melts into me, her hands sliding up my body and fingertips digging into the expanse of my upper back.

Breaking our kiss, I pivot us until Devyn is directly beneath the spray. She gasps as the hot water hits her, her eyes widening in surprise.

I tip her head back with a gentle hand at her nape, letting the water cascade over her face, her hair, down her body. Blinking the water from her lashes, she looks up at me, confused. “This isn’t quite what I was expecting when you said to come join you.”

I reach for the shampoo, squeezing a generous amount into my palm. “You’ll learn,” I tell her, my voice steady and sure. “I take care of what’s mine.”

She stills at that, her gaze narrowing slightly and brow cocking up. With familiar defiance, she sasses, “Yours?”

The challenge in her tone ignites the dark, predatory part of me that I no longer intend to suppress. In one motion, I tug her tight against me and band my arm around her waist. My other hand fists in her wet hair, pulling—not gently—roughly tipping her head back until she’s forced to meet my gaze. When her eyes widen, fixed on mine, I growl, “Yes. Mine. Don’t play games with me, baby girl. Not about this.” The fight drains from her face, submission falling over her features like a curtain.

Her body pliant in my hold, I tighten my grip on her hair and demand, “Say it.”

“Yours,” she breathes, the word barely audible over the spray of the water. “I’m yours, Daddy.”

Fuck.

The honorific on her lips, given so freely, sends a jolt of lust straight to my cock. I release her hair slowly, my touch gentling. She stays exactly where I’ve positioned her, trusting and waiting.

“Good girl,” I praise.

She practically glows under the words as I begin to lather the shampoo through her hair, massaging her scalp. After rinsing it clean, I apply conditioner, working it through the lengths with a care that belies my roughness, before rinsing it as well.

Lathering soap between my palms, I move to her body. I take my time. This isn’t about hygiene. This is about caring for her, demonstrating in a language far deeper than words that she belongs to me. I clean her shoulders, down her arms, and across her chest. I pay special attention to her breasts, watching her nipples tighten under my touch.

“Gunnar,” she exhales, her breath hitching.

I gently shush her, my hands moving lower, over her stomach and to her hips. “Let me take care of you.” I turn her under the spray to wash her back, the curve of her ass, and down the length of her legs. I kneel, running my hands down her calves, over her ankles, and between her toes before reaching for the razor.

She looks at it, then at me, uncertainty flickering across her face. “Gunnar, I can⁠—”

“Be still,” I interrupt, nudging her thighs apart as I find her stare. “I wouldn’t want to mar this perfect little pussy.” Her cheeks flush pink as she leans against the tiled wall, widening her stance and offering herself to me.