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My hands are greedy, tugging his jeans open, palming his ass, desperate to have all of him. He groans against my tit, a filthy, needy sound that makes my thighs go slick. He grinds against me, the press of his cock through his jeans so good I nearly lose it. My hips roll, chasing the friction, and he curses, teeth sinking into the swell of my tit like he can’t help himself.

The rest of our clothes disappear in a flurry of hands and mouths and fevered laughter. By the time I’m naked and stretched out under him, my whole body is trembling, every nerve ending firing at once. He pauses, kneeling over me, and looks me up and down with a hunger that’s almost reverent.

“I’ve never wanted anything so bad,” he says, and I can hear the raw truth in his voice.

“Me neither.” I pull him down, and when he kisses me, it’s softer than I expect. His hand cradles the back of my head, the other spreading my thighs, and he enters me with a slowness that nearly kills me. I feel every inch, every pulse, every impossible stretch. When he’s finally all the way in, we both gasp.

For a second, neither of us moves. Then I wrap my legs around him, dig my heels into the small of his back, and hold on for dear life.

He rocks into me, gentle at first, then with increasing urgency as our desire takes over. We fall into a rhythm, his hips rolling, his mouth on my neck, my hands everywhere. Every thrust sends sparks up my spine, and I’m babbling nonsense into his ear, words I don’t remember as soon as they leave my mouth.

He keeps his eyes open, watching my face, and every time I look back, it’s like he’s daring me to look away. I can’t. Not for a second.

When I come, it’s sudden and shattering, a white-hot burst that rips the air out of my lungs. “I love you,” I whisper as I clutch at him, nails digging into his shoulder blades.

“I fucking love you, too,” he growls and just keeps driving into me until he comes, too, hard and deep, collapsing over me with a groan that echoes off the walls around us.

We lie there, tangled up in sweat and sheets, my head on his chest and his arms wrapped so tight around me I doubt I could escape even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. I want to stay here with him forever.

His hand draws lazy circles on my back, the touch so soothing and intimate I could cry. I listen to his heart slow from a wild gallop to a steady, contented thump. His lips find my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.

The room is warm and quiet, a little pocket of peace I didn’t know I needed. The sheets are twisted around our bodies, and my hair is a disaster, but I feel beautiful. I feel loved. I feel like I belong.

That realization hits me hard. I’ve never belonged anywhere, not really. My childhood was a parade of new cities, temporary friends, and the constant ache of never being enough. Even in college, even in Austin, even with my yoga community, I always felt like I was standing just outside the window, watching other people have the life I wanted.

But here, wrapped up in this man’s arms, in his enormous bed, in his home, I feel wanted in a way that’s both terrifying and completely addictive.

I tilt my head up to look at him, and he’s already staring down, a slow, lazy smile on his face.

“What’s that look for?” he murmurs.

I should play it off, crack a joke, but I can’t. My guard is gone. “I’m just… happy,” I say, voice catching.

He pulls me up and kisses me, soft and slow, then tucks me back against his chest. “Me too, baby.”

As I drift toward sleep, I know this is just the beginning of us.