Because he’s edged me for so long, the moment he begins to ease in, I’m wet for him.
“Perfect little girl.”
And then he pushes in.
Slow.
Deep.
My mouth falls open. A broken sound escapes me.
“Oh, fuck?—”
“You’re going to do it.” He groans, fingers digging into my hips. “Take every damn inch and be grateful for it.”
He bottoms out with a growl, holding me there, filled, stretched, owned.
“I’ve been hard for hours,” he bites out. “Every time you begged. Every time I denied you. This”—he thrusts, once, sharp, and I cry out—“is what I’ve been thinking about.”
He sets a brutal rhythm, dragging me back onto him with every thrust.
My breasts bounce against the glass. My nails press foggy crescents into the pane.
He reaches around, pinches my nipples, then slides one hand down, cupping my sex.
And he circles.
One perfect press to my clit.
I shatter.
My orgasm hits so violently I scream, forehead hitting the glass, knees nearly buckling. I tremble and sob and clench around him, and he holds me upright, growling praise into my hair.
“That’s it. Come for me. So fucking perfect.”
I’m still coming when he slams in deeper, his powerful hips snapping hard.
And then he’s there too.
He grunts low, hoarse and buries himself to the hilt as he spills inside me.
His body jerks, shudders, and then goes still.
For a long moment, we just breathe.
Sweat slicks our skin. My forehead rests against the glass. His chest is warm at my back. Behind me, the city glows on, unaware.
He kisses my shoulder. My neck. My spine.
Then slowly, gently, he pulls out.
I wince. Every part of me is tender now, and my senses are overstimulated.
Xavier is there, catching me as I sag, lifting me in his arms like I weigh nothing. Then he carries me inside to the bed.
He lays me down like I’m breakable.
Like I matter.
