“We need a condom.” As he speaks, he’s already reaching toward the nightstand.
His hands waver slightly as he rolls it on, and the small loss of control makes my chest ache with tenderness.
Then he is back, settling between my thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging my entrance. He braces above me on one forearm. With his other hand, he cups my face, stroking his thumb over my cheekbone like I am something priceless.
“Look at me,” he says softly.
I do.
He pushes in, slow and relentless, eyes locked on mine the entire time. The stretch is exquisite, perfect, overwhelming.
When he bottoms out, we both exhale like we have been holding our breath for years.
He starts to move, deep, measured strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside me.
I wrap my legs high around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.
“Fuck. Yes.” He drops his forehead onto mine.
Our breaths mingle and sweat starts to bead along his spine where my fingers clutch.
I feel my second climax building already, coiling low and tight.
He shifts the angle, grinding against my clit with every thrust, and I shatter again, clenching hard around him, crying his name into his mouth as he kisses me through it.
Only when I am limp and gasping does he let himself go.
His rhythm stutters, hips snapping hard, once, twice, and then he buries himself deep and comes with a guttural sound that vibrates through my entire body.
For a long moment, we stay locked together, hearts hammering against each other, breath ragged.
Then he presses soft kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, like he cannot stop tasting me even now.
Eventually he eases out, disposes of the condom, then collapses beside me, pulling me into the cradle of his body, my back to his front, his arm a heavy band across my waist.
I am boneless. Ruined. Gloriously, perfectly ruined.
We both doze, drifting in and out, until I finally stretch.
“How about a bath?” He nuzzles into my hair. “I’ll draw it for you.”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks.” I’ve been taking at least one a day with Epsom salts to soak away the ache in my muscles from the constant attention he gives me.
“While you relax, I’ll make your chai.”
I turn in his arms, press my face to his chest, and breathe him in. Safety smells like cedar and sex and Stryker.
For the first time in my entire life, I do not brace myself for the moment to end.
I simply let myself have it.
Let myself have him.
And when he carries me to the tub a few minutes later, sets me gently into water, so hot it stings in the best way, and kneels beside the tub to wash my back with the same hands that just took me apart, I close my eyes.
This is what peace feels like.
This is what home feels like.
