Page 112 of Suite 7

Every muscle locking at once, a sound tearing out of me — raw and unguarded. The leather creaks under my hands. My thighs shake against the bench.

His hand presses flat against my back. Warm. Unmoving.

“Give me all of it.”

The second wave hits before the first has finished. I cry out again, higher, helpless, the plug and the vibrator and his hand and his voice converging into something so total the edges of the room dissolve.

I stop being able to hear anything except my own pulse.

His hand stays. Right there. The one fixed point.

The shaking moves through me in waves until there’s nothing left and I’m limp against the bench, wrung out and weightless.

The vibrator gentles. Then less. Then gone.

His hands move to my hips, warm and certain. I’ve got you. His thumb traces one slow circle against my skin while my breathing finds its way back.

“Vera.” His voice has changed. Lower. A frequency I haven’t heard from him before. “I need to ask you something.”

“Mm.” My brain is offline. It’ll be a moment.

A pause. Then: “Are you on birth control?”

That lands. Cuts through the haze.

I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder. He’s watching me with an expression I’ve seen in fragments before but never quite like this — careful, and wanting, and uncertain in a way Kane Sinclair almost never allows.

His hands have gone completely still on my hips.

“I am,” I say.

“I want to feel you. Nothing between us.” His jaw works. “I’ve never done that. In a scene. I need you to know that.”

“I want that. I want to feel all of you.”

He holds my gaze for one more beat, then steps out of my line of vision. The sound of his zipper cuts through the quiet. Air shifts behind me — his presence, the heat of it, before any contact. My pulse drops lower, thickens.

His palm settles warm between my shoulder blades, steady and certain. Then the slow, certain push of him inside me. All of it. Until there’s nowhere left to go.

And the sound I make is immediate and loud — nothing has prepared me for this. The plug still present, him filling the space beside it, the pressure of both so complete that language dissolves entirely.

We both go still.

His breathing has changed — I can feel it against my back, the expansion of his chest slower than usual, deeper. His hands move to my hips and his forehead drops forward, the warmth of it settling between my shoulder blades.

Neither of us speaks.

His lips find the curve of my neck below my ear. Warm and real. His chest settles against my back and my eyes sting.

“You feel incredible.” His voice is rough at the edges.

My throat tightens.

His lips move to my shoulder. His teeth graze it once, lightly.

Then he moves. The first stroke and my breath leaves me entirely — a sharp, helpless sound. He stills immediately.

“Don’t stop.” I press back against him. “Please. Don’t stop.”