"I know." Her voice carries the same edge, the same need that's been building between us for weeks.
I pull back just enough to see her face, searching for any hesitation. Instead, I find the same unwavering resolve that's driven every decision she's made since I walked into her newsroom.
Without breaking eye contact, I sink onto the narrow inn bed, my hands sliding down to her hips. She follows the motion, settling onto my lap with a grace that makes my pulse stutter.
The bed creaks under our combined weight, and I'm suddenly grateful for the inn's solid construction. Calla's legs bracket my thighs, and the new angle brings her face level with mine.
"I need you," I groan, the words torn from somewhere deeper than thought. My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones. "Calla, please."
Her answer comes in the form of another kiss, fiercer this time, her teeth catching my bottom lip. The small pain sends heat shooting through my veins, and I can't hold back the sound that escapes my throat.
She shifts down my body with unexpected grace, her knees settling on the worn floorboards between my legs. Her fingers go to the laces of my trousers, knuckles brushing against my stomach as she works. Every touch feels too deliberate, too intentional—the same focused precision she brings to editing a front page.
I rise up on my elbows to watch her. "You unpacking a story or unwrapping me?"
"Both." Her gaze flicks up, holding mine. "Both require attention to detail."
The laces give way under her clever fingers. I lift my hips, helping her push the fabric down my thighs. The cool air hits my skin, then her hand follows—wrapping around me with a confidence that steals my breath.
"Calla." Her name comes out ragged.
She leans forward, her tongue tracing a slow circle around the tip. The sensation arcs through my entire body, sharp and electric. When she glances up again, her eyes are wide with a question I've never seen in her before—something stripped of all her usual control.
I nod, my hand coming up to tangle in the hair at her nape. "Don't hold back."
Her mouth closes around me, and the world narrows to heat and pressure and the view of her dark head bowed between my legs. She takes me deeper with each pass, her hands braced on my thighs now, holding herself steady as she moves.
The sounds she makes are obscene and beautiful—wet drags of her lips, small gags when she pushes too far, the choked little noises in the back of her throat. My fingers tighten in her hair, guiding her rhythm until she's taking nearly all of me.
"Easy," I groan when she chokes again, water blooming at the corners of her eyes. But she doesn't stop, just swallows around me, the vibration reverberating through every nerve ending.
I'm close—too close—and the sensation of falling apart at her hands, her mouth, her perfect fucking control is almost too much. I pull her head back gently, breaking the seal with a slick pop.
Her lips stay parted, her breath coming fast. "Problem?"
"Just want you somewhere less breakable."
I scoop her up before she can protest, the motion spinning us both around. She lands on her stomach across the narrow bed, skirts rumpling up around her waist. My hands smooth over the curves of her ass, then slide between her thighs.
She spreads for me without hesitation, opening like a flower when my fingers find her. Wet heat meets my touch, and she arches into the contact with a sharp inhale.
"Tell me." My voice sounds rough-edged with need. "Tell me this is what you want."
Her answer comes in the form of her hips rocking back against my hand, taking my fingers deeper. "Don't stop. I want it."
I add another finger, stretching her slowly, watching the way her back bows and her hands fist in the bedding. Her breathing turns ragged between murmured curses.
When I pull my hand away, she makes a noise of protest that cuts off when I press the head of my cock against her entrance.
"Ready?"
Her laugh comes out breathless, muffled against the mattress. "What do you think?"
The first thrust punches the air from my lungs as much as hers. She’s so tight, a slick, clinging heat that draws me in deeper than I expected. A sharp gasp breaks from her lips, muffled by the bedding.
I don’t wait for her to adjust. I pull back and drive into her again, setting a rhythm that’s less about finesse and more about claiming. The bedframe knocks a steady, punishing beat against the wall. My hands grip her hips, fingers digging into the softness there, holding her still for each deeper, harder stroke.
“Brakkor—” Her voice is strained, fractured.
