“I'm good,” he said quickly, his hand tightening on my hip. “Don't stop.”
“But—”
“Sianni.” His voice was firm. “I'm good. Keep going.”
I hesitated, watching him, but the look in his eyes told me he wasn't backing down. He wasn't stopping. Not for anything.
So, I kept moving.
Slower at first. Careful. Watching for any sign that he was pushing himself too hard.
But the more I moved, the more he relaxed into it. The more his focus shifted from the pain tome. The way I felt around him. To the way my body moved.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head falling back again. “You feel so fucking good.”
His words sent heat rushing through me, and I moved faster. Harder.
The bed creaked beneath us. The sound of our breathing filled the room. And the feeling—God, the feeling—was overwhelming.
“Kyrie—” I gasped, my nails digging into his chest.
“I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I feel it too.”
His hand slid from my hip to my thigh, gripping me, guiding me, controlling the pace even though I was the one on top.
“Faster,” he said, his voice low and commanding.
I obeyed.
I sped up, moving, grinding down on him, chasing the feeling building in me. My thighs burned. My breath came in short, desperate gasps. But I couldn't stop.
“Fuck—” I whimpered, my whole body trembling.
“That's it,” Kyrie groaned, his grip tightening. “Take what you need, ma.”
And I did.
I rode him harder, faster, losing myself in the rhythm. In the feeling of him inside me. In the way he watched me like I was the only thing that mattered.
“Kyrie… I'm—” I gasped, my voice breaking.
“I know,” he said, his voice strained. “Let it go.”
And when I shifted the angle just slightly—when I felt him hit that spot deep inside me—I broke.
My whole body seized. My mouth fell open. My vision blurred.
I came so hard I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything but feel.
And through it all, Kyrie kept moving. Kept guiding my hips. Kept working me through it until I was shaking and gasping and collapsing forward onto his chest.
“Fuck,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
But he wasn't done.
His arm—his good arm—wrapped around my back, locking me against him. Not gentle. Not careful. Just tight enough to let me know I wasn't going anywhere.
“Kyrie—” I started, but the word barely made it out before he shifted beneath me.
