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“Don’t stop,” I gasp. “Please. Don’t you dare stop.”

His mouth finds mine again—desperate, bruising, everything. “I’m not stopping, baby. Not until you fall apart for me again.”

And then he proves it.

His hips snap forward, deep and rough, and my body answers with a gasp that feels like it’s ripped from my soul. I cling to him—fingers digging into the hard curve of his forearm—like maybe if I hold on tight enough, I won’t shatter.

But I already am.

Piece by piece, breath by breath, I’m coming undone beneath him.

He moves like he knows my body better than I do—like he mapped out every gasp, every hitch in my breath, every place I ache to be touched long before he ever stripped me bare.

“Kingston—” My voice breaks, caught between a moan and a sob. “I’m—I can’t⁠—”

“Yes, you can,” he whispers, lips ghosting over the shell of my ear. “You’re already there.”

He angles his hips just right and hits something inside me that lights up every nerve ending like fireworks behind my ribs. The pressure coils tight, unbearable, delicious.

The sound I make isn’t human.

It’s primal.

And he groans, deep and wrecked, like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful like this,” he rasps, moving faster now, harder. “Let go for me. Come on, baby. Let go.”

I do.

And when I come, it’s not soft or quiet.

It’s wild.

It’s a wave crashing through me, relentless and punishing and so good I forget my name for a second. My body convulses around him, muscles clenching tight, and I cry out into his neck, nails dragging down his back, not caring if I leave marks.

I want to leave marks.

I want him to feel me tomorrow. Just like I’ll feel him for days.

He curses under his breath, hips stuttering. His control slips—just barely—and then he lets go too, with a low, broken sound that makes my entire body pulse all over again.

When it’s over, when I’ve cried out his name so many times it no longer sounds like a word but something elemental, we collapse into the mess of tangled sheets and sticky skin and soft, ragged breathing.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

Heavy.

Sacred.

He presses a kiss to my collarbone, soft this time, reverent.

“I’m never going to get enough of you,” he whispers.

And something inside me twists—tight and terrifying and full of hope.

Because I think I feel the same way.

The air is thick with heat and something quieter, more intimate. The kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. Only felt.