“Theron—”
“Shh.” His mouth found my collarbone, teeth scraping lightly. “Let me.”
He worked his way down my chest with devastating patience, lips and tongue mapping every inch of skin like he was memorizing me. When he reached the waistband of my briefs—the only thing I’d bothered putting on before collapsing into bed—he looked up at me through his lashes, and the copper in his eyes was brighter now, pulsing with something primal.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, already hooking his fingers into the elastic.
“If you stop, I will literally kill you.”
He laughed—low and dark and pleased—and pulled my briefs down in one smooth motion. The cool air hit me for maybe half asecond before his mouth was there, and every coherent thought I’d ever had evaporated.
He was—fuck, he was good at this. Obscenely good. His tongue did something wicked along the underside that made my hips jerk off the mattress, and his hands pinned me back down with that effortless strength that shouldn’t have been as hot as it was. He took me deep, the heat of his mouth almost scorching, and I fisted both hands in the sheets because I needed to hold onto something or I was going to fly apart.
“Oh God—” My voice cracked embarrassingly. “Theron, I’m gonna—if you keep—”
He pulled off just long enough to say, “Not yet,” in that commanding coach voice, and my whole body shuddered. Then he swallowed me down again, setting a rhythm that was deliberately, torturously slow. Building me up and easing back, over and over, until I was shaking and sweating and making sounds I’d be mortified about if I had any capacity for shame left.
His hands moved—one sliding up my thigh, the other reaching for the nightstand. I heard the click of a cap, felt the cool slick of lube against my skin, and my breath hitched.
“Yes,” I said before he could ask. “Yes, please, yes—”
He worked me open with the same patience he’d used on everything else—one finger, then two, his mouth never stopping its devastating work. The dual sensation was almost too much. I was trembling, my thighs shaking, every nerve ending lit up like a live wire.
“Ready?” he asked, pulling off me with a wet sound that made my toes curl.
“Five minutes ago,” I gasped. “Ten minutes ago. Yesterday. Always.”
He moved up my body, settling between my legs, and I wrapped myself around him—arms around his neck, legs hooking over his hips, pulling him close until there was no spaceleft between us. No need for condoms. He pressed his forehead to mine, his breathing ragged now, and I could feel him there, hot and slick and waiting.
“Look at me,” he said, echoing what he’d said in the kitchen two mornings ago.
I opened my eyes. His were full copper now—blazing, beautiful, inhuman—and I wasn’t afraid. I would never be afraid of this. Of him.
He pushed in slowly, and my breath left me in a long, shuddering exhale. The stretch was intense, the fullness overwhelming, and I gripped his shoulders and breathed through it while he held perfectly still, his jaw clenched with the effort of waiting.
“Move,” I whispered. “I need you to move.”
He did.
Slow at first—long, deep strokes that made me feel every inch of him. His forehead stayed pressed to mine, our breath mingling, his eyes never leaving my face. It was intimate in a way that made my chest crack open. Not just sex. Not just physical. Something deeper, something that resonated in a place I couldn’t name.
“I can feel you,” he breathed, and his voice sounded awed. “The bond. I can feel what you’re feeling.”
“Good,” I managed, rolling my hips to meet his next thrust. “Then you know I need you to go harder.”
His control snapped. His hips drove forward, and I cried out—pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, exactly what I needed. He set a pace that was relentless, claiming, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave marks I’d wear proudly.
“Mine,” he growled, and the word vibrated through me like a tuning fork. “You’re mine, Dante.”
“Yours,” I agreed, because I was. Had been since the first time he’d looked at me across the ice with those impossible eyes. “Yours, always yours.”
He buried his face in my neck and drove into me until the world narrowed to nothing but sensation—the drag of him inside me, the weight of his body, the sounds he was making against my skin. I was close, so close, the pressure building at the base of my spine like a wave about to crest.
“Come for me,” he said, his hand wrapping around me between our bodies, and I shattered.
The orgasm tore through me with a violence that stole my vision, my muscles locking, my whole body arching off the bed as I cried out his name. I felt him follow—felt it through the bond, this new impossible thing between us—a wave of pleasure that wasn’t mine but was, crashing through both of us simultaneously until he was groaning against my throat, his hips stuttering, emptying himself inside me.
We lay there tangled together, breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem. His weight on me was grounding. Perfect. I ran my fingers up and down his spine and felt something there—a warmth beneath his skin, a faint vibration like touching a guitar string after it’d been plucked.
