We move together, finding the rhythm that works. Her hips rise to meet mine, her body accepting me deeper with each thrust. The sound of skin on skin fills the room, punctuated by her gasps and my groans.
“Harder,” she says, her voice breaking. “Tovek, please. I need?—”
I give her what she needs. Drive into her with more force, more urgency. The bed frame creaks beneath us. Her nails rake down my back, and the sharp sting of it makes me thrust harder.
“Yes,” she gasps. “Like that. God, just like that.”
I can feel my orgasm building at the base of my spine, but I’m not ready. Not yet. I want her to come again first. Want to feel her tighten around me, hear my name in her mouth.
I shift my weight, free one hand to slide between us. Find her clit with my thumb and press.
“Oh fuck,” she cries out, her back arching. “Tovek. I’m going to?—”
“Do it,” I growl against her ear. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”
She does. Her body clamps down around me, her inner walls fluttering and clenching. The sensation pushes me over the edge. My rhythm falters as my own release crashes through me, my weight settling more fully on her as I empty myself inside her.
For a long moment, we stay connected. My forehead pressed against hers, both of us breathing hard, both of us probably crushing the packing paper beneath us.
Worth it.
“Your unpacking is everywhere,” she observes after a while, her voice lazy with satisfaction. “All my careful organization, completely destroyed.”
“We’ll fix it later,” I say, already reaching for the blanket at the foot of the bed. “After we recover. After we regain the ability to think.”
“Recover,” she repeats, that particular note in her voice that means she’s amused. “From unpacking?”
“From you,” I correct, pulling the blanket over us. “From the way you take over my life and make it better despite my best efforts to resist.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. “Is that what I do?” she asks finally, her voice softer than before. “Take over your life?”
“In the best possible way,” I say, meaning it completely. “You organize my chaos. You make systems out of my disasters. You turn my mess of a bedroom into our home. You make me want to be better, which is honestly a miracle.”
“It’s not a home yet,” she points out. “We still need to find a place for the trophy. And figure out the closet situation. And probably buy more hangers.”
“We’ll figure it out.” I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the particular scent of her shampoo mixed with sweat and sex. “Right now, I just want to lie here with you and not think about unpacking or organization or anything except how much I love you.”
“Smooth,” she says, but she’s smiling. “Very smooth.”
“I have my moments.”
She shifts against me, propping herself up on one elbow to look at my face. “You’ve been thinking about something,” she observes. “Not just the moving in thing. Something bigger.”
My heart does a weird stutter-step. “What makes you say that?”
“Because I know you.” She traces the line of my jaw with one finger. “You get this look. Like you’re planning something. Like you’re waiting for the right moment.”
“Maybe I am,” I say carefully. “Would that be okay?”
“Plans are good.” She’s quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “I like plans. Especially when they involve us. Together. Preferably with better closet organization.”
“Always together,” I say, the words coming out more forceful than I intended. “Whatever comes next, it’s us. Both of us. Building something that lasts. Something permanent.”
She smiles against my chest. I can feel the curve of her mouth against my skin. “Like the pantry,” she says softly. “Something that says we were here. That we built this together.”
“Exactly like the pantry.” I kiss the top of her head, my chest tight with emotion I can’t quite name. “Imperfect but real. Handmade. Ours.”
We lie there in comfortable silence, the afternoon light filtering through the half-drawn blinds, the scattered packing paper forgotten on the floor and the bed and probably in places we won’t discover for weeks.
