"That is so," she murmurs, then leans in and bites my earlobe, sharp enough to make me hiss through my teeth.
Her lips brush my ear.
"And I'm going to ride you," she whispers, "until you explode, and we grow a damn forest outside."
Well, fuck. If that's not a religion, I don't know what is.
She straddles me, still clothed, her soft pajama pants clinging to her thighs, the hem of her borrowed shirt brushing my stomach. I'm in jeans, and the fabric between us is a curse now, separating skin that aches to meet.
We're both breathing hard from the weight of what this is. Her fingers move first. She slides them beneath the hem of her shirt and lifts it over her head, slow and smooth, exposing the curve of her waist, her breasts, the soft trail of ink winding along her ribs like vines reaching for light.
I prop myself on my elbows, drinking her in. "Goddamn," I murmur.
She smiles, a slow, knowing thing, and reaches down to the drawstring of her pants, tugging them loose. She rises onto her knees to slide them off, her thighs brushing mine in the process, and it's maddening.
Underneath, she's bare. No underwear. Just skin, heat, and the shimmer of arousal already slick between her legs.
My breath catches. My fangs threaten to drop again, not from hunger but from something deeper—need tethered to worship.
She tilts her head. "Your turn."
I obey.
It's not a performance. I just want her hands on me. Want nothing between us.
I reach for the button of my jeans, undo them with a slow pull of the zipper, and shove them down along with my briefs, just enough to free myself. Her eyes drop, and she bites herbottom lip, dragging her palm slowly, possessively along the length of me.
The contact nearly undoes me.
She shifts onto me, aligning us. I'm ready.
I'm always ready for her.
However… nothing could've prepared me for this. She lowers onto me slowly, inch by aching inch, and my head tips back against the mattress with a groan torn straight from my chest.
"Fuck, Sage…"
She's tight. Hot. Perfect.
We stay there, still for a moment, locked, pressed close, her hands braced on my chest, her breath stuttering in time with mine.
And then she moves, slow and claiming. Like I'm hers. And I let her. Because I am, and I'd sell my nonexistent soul for her in a heartbeat.
My hands don't grip her hips to guide. I don't flip her over and take the reins like I usually do. I stay where I am, worshiping every motion she makes.
She sets the rhythm, slow and deep, her thighs trembling as she rides me like it means something. And it does. Because this isn't just sex. It's communion. An undoing.
It'shome.
Her pace quickens. Still controlled, still deep, but there's more urgency now. Her head tips back, lips parted, a sound escaping her throat that's half-moan, half some ancient nature prayer.
I grip the sheets beside me, knuckles white, resisting the urge to take over.
Because watching her like this, feeling her, is unraveling something in me I didn't know was wound so tight.
"Sage…" I whisper, the name catching like heat behind my teeth.
She rides me with a rhythm that feels older than both of us, like we've done this before in another life, like her body was built to move with mine.
