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“Tell me if anything hurts,” I whisper.

He nods. “I will.”

“If you need to stop…”

“I’ll tell you.”

I believe him.

He believes me.

It is enough and I press my forehead to his and close my eyes a moment, centring myself in what we are about to do.

Then Poet kisses me again, and I kiss him back, as we choose each other after what happened instead of trying to escape it.

Our bodies align naturally.

I am above Poet, my knees either side of his hips. He rolls a condom onto his cock and shivers as I smooth lube down the length of him. “I have not done this before.”

Like this.

With him or anyone else.

He is the only man I have ever been with and that is not going to change.

“Slow,” he urges. “Do whatever feels good.”

I will.

I am.

Breath fills my lungs—love—as I lower myself onto him and let the world outside disappear. As I let him fill me as far as we can go without hurting him.

“Velnias…” I tip my head back, sinking into the burning stretch as Poet rubs my hips. “You do not get smaller.”

He chokes on a laugh.

I almost laugh too, but I am too aroused. Too consumed. Too in love with him for such a thing to happen.

Rhythm finds us. I grind down on Poet and lose myself in how it unravels him. He was quiet the first time we explored each other, but those binds are long gone. His voice is hoarse from the fire, but the sounds he makes are primal and free.

He thrusts up into me.

I root a hand on the bed frame, holding on.

Letting go.

My cock throbs with need, and inside…inside I am burning alive with the sweetest fire, and I am almost afraid of how hard I will come.

Poet wraps his skilled and clever fingers around me. Pressure, perfect pressure. “Say my name.”

“Poet.”

“Louder.”

But that’s not what he means.

I press his other hand to my chest and rumble his name at my lowest register, but it’s not a reach. It’s natural, a base instinct, running deeper than thought.