“Look at me,” he murmurs.
I force my eyes open, locking onto his.
And that’s when I see it. The absolute possession in his gaze. The raw intensity that makes my stomach tighten and my pulse stutter. All the love. The love that I want to deny myself.
“You’re taking me so fucking well,” he rasps, his voice wrecked, reverent.
I whimper, rolling my hips slightly, needing more. Needing the friction.
His lips curve into a dangerous smirk.
“There’s my good girl.” He kisses my temple. “You want more, baby?”
“Yes,” I beg, and then he starts to move.
It’s slow, deep, calculated.
Every thrust stretches me open, fills me to the hilt, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside me.
His grip on my hips tightens, holding me down, making sure I take every inch.
I arch into him, my body begging for more, my breath coming in sharp, ragged moans.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he groans, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
I whimper, my nails dragging down his back, my body trembling beneath him.
He pulls back slightly, his hand wrapping around my throat, tilting my chin just enough to meet his gaze.
“You were made for this,” he murmurs, thrusting deep, making me gasp, shatter, break apart beneath him. “Made for me.”
I nod frantically, my breath stuttering, my body coiling tight.
“Hopper—”
“I know, baby,” he growls, snapping his hips faster, harder, deeper.
His fingers press into my clit, his lips brushing against mine, his voice low, filthy.
“Come for me, sweetheart.”
And I do.
The world blurs, my body convulsing around him, pleasure crashing over me in violent waves.
Hopper groans, losing control, his thrusts turning desperate, wild, until he finally spills inside me, his body shuddering against mine.
He stills, his thick length buried deep inside me, stretching me in a way that feels almost unbearable, almost too much—until his hands are on me, smoothing over my hips, my sides, his touch a silent reassurance. My body clenches around him, trying to adjust, and I whimper, my breath shuddering against his lips.
His response is immediate, tender. He cups my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my cheek before he kisses me—soft, reverent, like he’s savoring me. “You feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, his lips pressing against my forehead, then my temple, then lower, brushing against my jaw. “So perfect for me.”
Another kiss, over the corner of my mouth, like he’s giving me time, like he’s grounding me in the warmth of him. His fingers stroke down my arms, finding my hands, threading them together as he whispers, “I love you.”
The words are raw, unguarded, like they’re pulled straight from his soul. My chest tightens, something deep and aching unfurling inside me.
“You own me,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to mine. “Every inch of me. Every thought, every breath—I’m yours.”
My throat tightens, my fingers squeezing his in silent response. I feel everything in that moment—his love, the depth of it, the way he holds me like I’m precious, irreplaceable.
