Gently, I adjust her position, her back cushioned by the couch as I kneel between her legs. I pause, my hand caressing her cheek, searching her face for any sign of discomfort. She nods, her breath hitching, and I lean down to kiss her, slow and tender, pouring every ounce of my love into the touch.
“I’m yours,” I whisper against her lips. “Always.”
I take my time, sliding my hand down her side, careful not to press too hard, knowing her fibromyalgia can turn even the softest touch into pain. My fingers brush over her thigh, coaxing her legs wider as I position myself. She’s ready for me, her body welcoming, her breaths shallow and quick.
Slowly, I guide myself to her, pressing forward inch by inch. Her warmth envelops me, and I have to close my eyes to steady myself, to hold on to the control that’s hanging by a thread. “God, Pia,” I groan, my voice raw with emotion. “You’re perfect. So perfect.”
She lets out a soft gasp as I slide deeper, her nails biting into my shoulders, holding me as though I’m her anchor. “Is this okay?” I ask, my lips brushing her ear. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
“It’s perfect,” she whispers, her voice trembling but sure. “You’re perfect.”
I move slowly, methodically, each thrust deliberate, each pull purposeful. I want her to feel every inch of me, to know that this isn’t just about the physical—it’s about everything we’ve ever shared, everything we’ve been through. “I missed you,” I murmur, my forehead pressed against hers. “Every part of you.”
Her moans grow louder, her body arching to meet mine, and I grip her waist with one hand, keeping her steady. “That’s it,” I praise, my voice low and reverent. “Take me. Let me feel you.”
She clings to me, her hands sliding into my hair, her body responding to mine with a need that matches my own. “You’re mine,” I tell her, my movements slow and deep, meant to brand her with the truth. “And I’m yours. Always yours.”
Her eyes flutter open, locking with mine again, and I see it there—the trust, the love, the need that mirrors my own. In this moment, there’s no pain, no hesitation. Just us.
I thrust deeper, my movements still controlled but harder now, testing the edge of her limits. She gasps, her nails raking down my back, and the way she clings to me drives me wild. My forehead presses to hers, our breaths mingling as I slow just enough to speak.
"Touch yourself," I command, my voice rough and low, thick with need. "I want to feel you come while I’m inside you. Show me how good you feel."
Her hand trembles as she moves it between us, her fingers finding her clit. I thrust again, deeper this time, and her moan nearly undoes me. Watching her, feeling her tighten around me, it’s enough to make my pulse thunder in my ears.
“That’s it, Pia. Good girl,” I murmur, my voice soft yet commanding. “Let me feel how much you love this, how much you love me inside you.”
Her hips meet mine, her movements frantic now, and I pick up the pace, each thrust sending us closer to the edge. Her cries grow louder, her body arching beneath me, and the way she saysmy name—ragged, breathless—shatters what little control I have left.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” I groan, gripping her waist tighter, pulling her closer. “Made for me. Look at you—so beautiful, taking all of me.”
Her eyes meet mine, wide and hazy with pleasure, and her lips part, her voice trembling. “Haydn, please . . . I want you to come inside me. Fill me, please.”
The desperation in her voice sends a bolt of heat straight through me. My thrusts grow faster, deeper, each one driving us closer. “You want that?” I growl, my breath ragged. “You want me to fill you up? Say it again.”
“Yes,” she whimpers, her voice breaking. “I need you, Haydn. I need all of you.”
“Fuck, Pia,” I groan, burying myself as deep as I can go, grinding against her, my hand tangling in her hair. “You’re mine. Every inch of you is mine.”
Her body clenches around me, her cry breaking free as her orgasm takes her. The sight of her, the sound of her—it's everything. I follow, my release ripping through me, filling her as I press my hips tight against hers. My forehead drops to her shoulder, and for a moment, everything is silent except for our breathing, the aftermath of our connection settling over us.
“You’re amazing,” I whisper, kissing her sweat-dampened skin. “We’re amazing together.”
She sighs, her fingers brushing the back of my neck, soft and tender now. “You’re mine, Haydn,” she murmurs, her voice a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction.
I lift my head to meet her gaze, brushing my thumb over her cheek. “Always yours,” I tell her, my voice soft but firm. “And you’re mine. Forever.”
Epilogue
Ophelia
A month later. . .
My hands are smudged with dust from unpacking yet another box, but I don’t care. This is the good kind of mess, the kind that comes with starting over—starting together.
Haydn’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s attempting to organize my mismatched collection of mugsalongside his sleek, designer set that probably cost more than my first camera. “Do we really need this many?” he shouts playfully.
“Yes,” I call back, grinning as I tuck another stack of books onto the shelves of his library. “Every mug has a purpose. Leave them alone.”
