"All the way, Seraphine," he says, and hearing my full name in his mouth does something to me.
Something dangerous.
Something that makes me let go.
I drop the final two inches and take him completely.
The sound I make isn't human.
It's animal—a cry of pleasure-pain that tears out of my throat as he bottoms out inside me, stretching me to my absolute limit, filling spaces I didn't know existed. My walls clench around him instinctively, adjusting to his size, and he groans—a deep, guttural noise that vibrates through his chest into mine.
"Fuck." The word punches out of him. "Fuck, tight as hell."
I can't respond.
Can't do anything except sit there, impaled, feeling him pulse inside me while my body tries to decide if this is pleasure or death.
Both, probably…definitely.
His hands slide up my sides—slow, reverent, tracing the ladder of my ribs, the bruises from my corset, the constellation of scars I've collected like trophies. When his palms cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over peaked nipples, I twitch—a full-body spasm I can't control.
"Been dying to touch you," he whispers, and the confession is so raw it makes my eyes sting.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on his chest, letting my hair fall around us like a curtain.
"Then touch me," I breathe. "Touch me like you mean it."
His hands move to my hips again—gripping harder this time, fingernails digging in deep enough I know I'll have crescent-shaped marks tomorrow. Evidence. Proof. Something to look at when my brain tries to convince me this was all a hallucination.
Then he pulls me down and kisses me.
Not gentle.
Not tentative.
Claiming.
His tongue invades my mouth like he's trying to memorize every tooth, every taste, every sound I make when he bites my bottom lip hard enough to sting. I kiss him back with equal ferocity—hands fisting in his pink hair, nails scratching his scalp, teeth catching his tongue in a way that makes him groan into my mouth.
We make out like we're drowning and the other person is air.
Like we've been starving for five years, and this is the first real meal.
As if we stop, even for a second, the universe will remember we're not supposed to exist together and tear us apart.
His hands are everywhere—gripping my ass, my thighs, my waist, leaving bruises in the shape of his desperation. My fingers map the ridges of his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the tattoos I want to trace with my tongue later when I'm not so thoroughly wrecked.
When he finally breaks the kiss, we're both gasping.
"Move," he commands, voice rough. "I need you to move, Sweetness. Need to feel you riding me."
The image his words paint—me, bouncing on his cock, taking control, using him for my pleasure—sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.
I lift myself experimentally.
Just an inch.
The drag of him against my inner walls is exquisite torture, every nerve ending lighting up in a way I've never experienced before.
