Page 135 of Broken Blades

He moved with controlled precision, each thrust deep and measured, like he was savoring the way my body took him. The friction built slowly, a relentless pressure that coiled tighter with every roll of his hips. His muscles flexed beneath my hands, the scars on his skin rough against my fingertips, grounding me in the moment.

I arched beneath him, my body responding without permission, meeting each slow stroke with a quiet desperation. The way he watched me—like I was the only thing that mattered—made my chest ache. His jaw was tight, his breath uneven, but his movements never faltered. Every push inside me was deliberate, every withdrawal a promise of more.

The room faded until there was only him—the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the way his hands gripped my hips like he was afraid I’d disappear. I could feel him everywhere, inside and out, and it was too much and not enough all at once.

My legs wrapped around him, pulling him deeper, and his breath hitched. The rhythm stuttered for just a second before he regained control, his pace never breaking. His fingers tangled in my hair, tilting my head back so he could see every flicker of emotion cross my face.

The tension built until I was trembling beneath him, my body tightening around his. He didn’t speed up. Didn’t rush. Just kept moving inside me with that same slow, devastating control, his gaze locked on mine like he was daring me to look away.

I couldn’t.

I didn’t want to.

Because in that moment, with him buried deep and my heart pounding against his, I realized the terrifying truth—I wasn’t just falling for him.

I was already his.

The pressure coiled tighter, my body winding like a spring beneath him. His slow, deliberate strokes pushed me closer to the edge with every roll of his hips. I could feel it building—something huge and inevitable—until my breath came in short, sharp gasps.

Then it hit.

Pleasure crashed over me in waves, my back arching off the bed as my body clenched around him. A broken sound tore from my throat, his name spilling from my lips like a prayer. My fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into skin as the world narrowed to nothing but the feel of him inside me, the weight of him surrounding me, the way his breath hitched against my neck.

His voice was rough, strained. "That's it." His hand slid down to grip my hip, holding me steady as I trembled beneath him. "Such a good girl. You take me so well."

The words sent another shudder through me, my body pulsing around him. He groaned, his rhythm faltering for the first time as my release milked him deeper. His forehead dropped to mine, his breath hot and uneven against my lips.

"Fuck," he growled, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt. "I feel you come all over my cock, sweetheart."

His body tensed above me, every muscle locking as he spilled inside me with a guttural sound. The heat of him filled me, his release triggering another small wave of pleasure that made me whimper. His arms shook as he held himself over me, his breath coming in ragged bursts against my skin.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. He stayed buried deep, his weight pressing me into the mattress in the most perfect way. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest, his skin damp with exertion. My fingers traced lazy patterns up and down his back, memorizing the feel of him.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were dark and intense, searching my face like he was looking for something. His thumb brushed my cheekbone, his touch impossibly gentle after the way he'd just claimed me.

"You okay?" His voice was rough, like the words had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. More than okay. Ruined. Changed. His.

He kissed me then—slow and deep, like he was sealing a promise between us. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, his breath warm on my lips.

"That," he murmured, "was not part of the plan."

I managed a shaky laugh. "No?"

His fingers tightened slightly on my hip. "No." A pause. His voice dropped lower. "But I'm not complaining."

The shower ran warm, steam filling the bathroom as he guided me under the spray. His hands moved through my hair with a gentleness that made my chest ache—fingers working shampoo through the strands like he'd done this a thousand times before. Like we had all the time in the world. I closed my eyes and let him tilt my head back, his palm cradling the base of my skull while water rinsed away the suds.

My fingers found the scars on his torso without thinking. Rough lines crisscrossed his ribs, his abdomen—remnants of a life lived hard. I traced them slowly, feeling the raised skin beneath my fingertips, wondering about each one. What caused them. How much they'd hurt. Whether anyone had ever touched them this way before.

He didn't pull away. Just stood still under my exploration, his breath steady against the crown of my head.

When I looked up, he was watching me with an expression I couldn't name. Something raw. Something that looked like it hurt. But before I could ask, he leaned down and kissed my shoulder where water streamed over skin. Then the other. His mouth followed the path of droplets down my collarbone, across my chest, like he was memorizing the taste of me.

Nothing was spoken.

Everything was understood.