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The—oh my actual fucking god his cock is pierced.

He smirks at the way my mouth falls open as he strokes himself, thumbing the barbell at the head of his cock, and I need an embarrassing amount of time to remember how to close it.

“You don’t have to want what’s already yours,” I whisper. “Fuck me, Theo. Please.”

The last of his composure burns out in his eyes.

It feels a little like I just signed my own death certificate.

Death by D. Calla’s words pop into my head.

You know what? I will make a beautiful cautionary tale. And I am completely fine with that.

He surges forward, kissing me. His hands skim down my sides, worshipful and a little rough, undoing the ties just enough to free my wrists.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t slam into me. He presses into me—unhurried, deep, with a groan ripped from somewhere behind his ribs.

“Oh my god,” I gasp.

He’s thick. Stretching me to the edge of what I can take. Every inch feels impossible, too much. And then not enough when he pulls out before thrusting back in just a little more each time.

I try to breathe through it, but he just keeps going, deeper, deeper, until I swear I can feel him in my throat.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Theo grits out. “We were made to fit together. I know you can take it.”

I whimper, and he pauses, buried almost all the way inside me. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect around me. Taking every inch, even when it feels too big. Look at you already shaking again. You’re doing so good. Letting me in. Letting me have you like this.”

My body clenches involuntarily, and he groans again, low and feral. “That’s it. Fuck. I’m not even all the way in yet.”

Oh my god.

He pulls back just slightly, then thrusts deeper, surely all the way this time, until I feel full in a way that borders on unbearable. Until I forget my own fucking name.

“You feel—fuck, Lila. You feel like heaven. You are heaven.”

He finds a rhythm that’s maddening in its tenderness, each thrust a demand. I feel every inch of him, every withheld thought finally poured into the way he moves—stretching me open, splitting me in half in the best possible way. It hurts, but it’s the kind of hurt I crave, the kind that makes me feel ruined and worshipped all at once.

“Mine,” he mouths the word against my throat. It’s like he can’t say it enough, like maybe he is trying to convince himself it’s finally true. “Every sound you make. Every time you fall apart for me. It’s fucking mine.”

I moan, nearly scream as he angles just right.

“Say it for me, Lila,” he groans, hips stuttering. “Say you’re mine.”

“I am,” I pant. “I’m yours, Theo.”

He slows, pushing in deep and holding there, our brows pressed against one another.

“This isn’t just sex,” he says, almost as if he’s afraid I’ll argue. “You know that, right?”

I nod, too wrecked to speak.

Because I do know. It’s not just the way it feels. Or the way he fucks me like I’m something to be studied and worshipped. It’s that every part of me—every fracture, every scar—feels safe in his hands.

When he comes, it’s with a shudder and a soft curse, burying himself in me. I follow seconds later, losing myself beneath him, pleasure crashing through me in waves I didn’t know I was still capable of riding.

We stay like that for a while. Breathless, hearts pounding in sync, the world reduced to the square footage of this bed and the air between our mouths.

He presses one last kiss to my temple, soft enough to undo me all over again, before he pulls away.