Page 188 of Wicked Brutal

He keeps that slow, deep rhythm, kissing my face clean, praising me through the leftover shakes, holding the line he drew in the fight without turning it into another order. Not fixed. Held.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Taking me so well. Still shaking. Still mine. Look at you. Fresh off crying on my cock and still letting me have you.”

A kiss. Softer than the words. “You’re so pretty like this. All wrecked and stubborn and full of me. Best thing I’ve ever seen. Best thing I’ve ever had.”

He slides a hand under my head, the other braced beside me so his weight never lands where it shouldn’t. Every thrust is deliberate now. Not frantic. Claiming.

“This is mine,” he says, low. “This mouth. This body. This baby. The girl who yelled at me until I heard her. The girl who still opened for me after I fucked up. God, Ally. You feel perfect. Tight. Warm. Like you were built to ruin me.”

I gasp when he changes the angle.

He groans like he felt it too. “There. That’s the spot. Let me have it. Let me fuck you like I love you, because I do.”

“Please, Ry—“

His rhythm stutters. “Fuck. I’m close. You want it?”

“Yes. Come. I want it.”

He kisses me hard and breaks. He comes with a low, wrecked sound into my mouth, buried deep, hips jerking through it, one hand covering my stomach like even now that’s the thing he has to hold. I feel the heat of him, the way he shakes, the way he says my name like a promise he can’t afford to miss.

“Ally—“ He stays there until his breathing evens out. Kisses my temple. My wet cheek. My mouth. Then he eases out of me carefully and drops his forehead to my shoulder.

For a minute neither of us talks. Nothing is magically fixed. I’d be pissed if an orgasm somehow solved international conspiracy and family trauma.

I’m sitting on the edge of the guest house bed pulling my clothes back into place while Ryan finds my other shoe. It somehow ended up near the door. I don’t ask. He brings it to me.

I take it. “I’m still mad.”

“I know.” My head snaps up. He catches himself. “Fuck.”

I almost smile. Almost. “You’re learning.”

“Slowly.” I put on the shoe. Ryan sits beside me. Not touching. For a minute, neither of us says anything. Then he reaches into his pocket. The ultrasound picture.

He looks at it. All the fight leaves his face. “Our baby has a huge fucking head.”

I stare at him. Then I laugh. I can’t help it. “Tobias said the same thing.”

“He was right.”

Ryan runs his thumb over the edge of the picture. Then his expression sobers. “I meant what I said.”

“Which part? You yelled a lot.”

“That I’m not choosing.”

I look at him. “Ryan—“

“No. I’m not saying I can control everything.”

“Growth.”

“Don’t ruin it.” I shut my mouth. “For once, I’m admitting there might be shit I can’t fix.”

“That physically hurt you, didn’t it?”

“Little bit. But you don’t become disposable because somebody younger needs you.” I look away. Ryan doesn’t force me to look back. “You keep counting everybody except yourself, Ally.”