“Fuck,” I gasp. “I feel you everywhere.”
“You’re perfect,” he groans.
He starts to move—slow, deep strokes that make me cry out. Each thrust rocks me, pushes air from my lungs. I can feel every inch. Every vein. The curve of him pressing into me in places no one ever has.
“Harder,” I gasp.
He obeys.
He grabs my hips, pulls me down into every thrust. My body jerks under him. My nails scratch his back, dig into his shoulders. He growls, loud and guttural, and fucks me like he means it.
“Kragna—gods—yes?—”
He lifts one of my legs, hooks it over his shoulder. He hits deeper. My vision whites out.
I’m close again—pussy clenching, heat spiraling out of control.
“Don’t stop—fuck—I’m coming?—”
I shatter.
I scream. My pussy milks his cock as I come again, hard and messy. He fucks me through it, relentless, driving, brutal.
He groans. “River—I’m?—”
“Do it,” I whisper. “Come inside me.”
With a roar, he thrusts deep one last time and spills into me. Hot, thick, endless.
We collapse—happy and gasping, sweat slick and panting.
I curl into his chest. His heart beats slow under my ear.
“I love you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
“I know,” he says. “I love you too.”
The words crack something open in me. Something buried. Something I thought I’d buried too deep to feel.
Later, when the candles are just pools of wax and the world is nothing but breath and skin, I whisper, “You still want to live under a bridge?”
He pauses.
“Only if you’re there,” he murmurs. “Otherwise, I might cave it in just to feel something.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. It bubbles out, light and full.
He grins, wide and a little stupid.
It feels like the end of something.
And the start of everything.
28
KRAGNA
