She touched his cheek.
“I am exactly where I want to be.”
He exhaled a sound that was almost a groan of relief—and then he began to move.
Slowly at first, each motion deep and careful, as though savouring the rediscovery of breath and body. The closeness was overwhelming—skin to skin, his warmth surrounding her, her softness yielding to him, shaping around him. Every glide stole a new sound from her throat, and every sound seemed to unravel him further.
The slow reverence deepened.
Shifted.
Grew.
His rhythm strengthened as she welcomed him, her hips lifting to meet him with instinct she hadn’t known she possessed. Her fingers traced the lines of his back—the scars she had only glimpsed, the tension she felt easing beneath her touch—and he moved with her, against her, inside her, as though he had been made for this and for her alone.
“Celine…” His voice broke on her name.
She gasped his in return, and the fragile tether of his restraint frayed.
The world narrowed to heat and breath and the deep, aching unity of their bodies.
His pace grew more urgent, though he never stopped watching her—checking for her pleasure, her consent, her desire.
Every shift drew a deeper sound from her lips.
Every sound made him falter and surge in equal measure.
She felt herself rising again—not with the sharp swiftness of before, but with a slow, consuming intensity that spread through her limbs, her chest, the very centre of her being.
“I can’t—” she breathed.
“Yes,” he whispered fiercely, “with me.”
His hand found hers, fingers interlacing, anchoring them together as her climax swept over her—shuddering, all-encompassing, a breaking open that left her trembling beneath him.
The sight of her undone beneath him broke his remaining control.
He moved once more, deep and desperate, and then he held her tight—buried in her, breath shattering against her neck—as his own release overtook him in a low, ragged groan.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Their hearts beat too fast, too synchronous, their bodies still joined, breaths mingling in uneven patterns as though they shared a single air.
Finally, he drew back just enough to see her face.
She brushed a strand of hair from his brow.
There was nothing raw or frantic now.
Only tenderness.
And wonder.
“You’re trembling,” she whispered.
“So are you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek as if memorising her anew.
They lay together in the quiet that followed, their bodies still warm, still touching, still refusing to part.
