He moves slow, each thrust a declaration. A question. A prayer.
His hands hold me like I’m glass and fire.
Our lips meet again and again, sloppy and sweet and filled with need.
“You feel...” he pants, “so damn perfect.”
I moan, louder than I mean to.
“Too much?” he asks.
“Not enough.”
He chuckles, deep and rumbling. “That’s new.”
“You make me greedy.”
He speeds up, just slightly.
“Then I’ll ruin you.”
“Try me.”
We spiral together, breathless and sweating, bodies locked like puzzle pieces. My thighs tremble. My voice breaks. And when I come, I call his name like it’s sacred.
He follows with a low growl, hips stuttering.
After, he cradles me, still sheathed inside me.
I rest my forehead against his chest, slick with sweat.
His heart beats wild under my cheek.
His voice is soft, almost scared. “Is this real?”
I should answer.
I want to.
Instead, I kiss him again. I’ll let him decide whether this is real or not.
CHAPTER 21
TROKA
Days passed, and the bar smells like fried synth-meat, old copper, and whatever they use to mop the floors after closing that never quite cuts it. It’s familiar. It’s mine now, in a weird way. Not because I work here—hell no—but because she’s here. Every shift. Every sass-laced drink order. Every flick of that stubborn brown hair.
And she’s laughing.
Not with me.
With him.
Another damn Vakutan.
Younger. Flashier. One of those fancy-officer types who talks like he bathes in cologne and thinks his jawline wins wars.
“Troka,” Jorla, the bartender on nights I’m off-duty, mutters as he leans across the bar. “Don’t. You’re vibrating.”
