Page 62 of What We Become

For a long moment he just stands there, and I watch the war move through him—want against worry, the size of him against his fear of hurting me.

“Fury, I’m a lot to take when you’re well.” His voice is low, rough at the edges. “We can wait a little longer for that.”

“I don’t want to wait.” I push up on my elbows, ignoring the pull in my ribs. “I told you I’d tell you if I needed to stop. This is me telling you—I don’t need to stop. I just need you.”

He doesn’t move.

“Please, Knoxie.”

That does it. He tugs his shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor before returning to the foot of the bed. His hands go to his belt.

The sound of that buckle opening is the best thing I’ve heard in days. I shift to the edge of the mattress and help him, fingers working the button, dragging the zipper down. The moment he’s free, I wrap my hand around him—thick, heavy, more than my fingers can circle—and stroke once, twice, watching his jaw clench.

“Fury.” There’s a note of warning in his tone.

“I know.” I lean forward and press my mouth to his stomach, feeling the muscles jump under my lips.

He kicks his jeans aside. Then his hands are under my arms and he lifts me like I weigh nothing, settling back against the headboard with me in his lap.

“You control the pace,” he says, voice gravel-rough. “I’ll take your weight. Anything hurts, you stop.”

“Okay.”

He guides me over him, one hand gripping himself at the base, the other spanning my hip. I sink down slow—so slow—and the stretch of him steals every thought out of my head. My mouth falls open. There’s no room for anything but the feeling of him filling me, almost splitting me in half, my body stretching to its limits to take him.

“Fuck,” I gasp. “I can feel all of it.”

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna hurt yourself if you don’t go slow.”

I breathe. I take more. Inch by excruciating inch. Until there’s nothing left to take.

We’re flush together, and I sit there impaled and shaking, his hands bracketing my hips like he’s holding something that might shatter. He bows his head against my chest. He’s breathing like he’s run miles, and he hasn’t even moved.

“Fury.” My name sounds dragged out of him.

“I’m okay.” I roll my hips, testing, and the sound he makes vibrates through his whole chest. “See? Okay.”

“Slow.”

“You keep saying that.” I lift, sink back down, and the drag of him inside me blanks my mind clean. “But you’re not stopping me.”

“Can’t.” His grip tightens. “Should.”

“Don’t you dare.”

I find a rhythm. Careful, rolling, nothing that pulls too hard at my injuries, and every pass of him against that spot inside makes my breath break apart. His hands stay at my hips, taking most of my weight while I move. He lets me lead. Lets me use him, take from him, set every slow stroke.

This is what I needed. My body moving because I want this.

I do. His eyes are dark, blown, fixed on my face like there’s nothing else in the room worth seeing. One of his hands slides up my spine, careful of every bandage, until it’s cradling the back of my neck. My pulse kicks under his thumb before I can stop it—the old reflex, the one I’ve been told not to punish myself for. It comes. It goes. His hand doesn’t move and neither do I.

“You’re here,” he says.

And I get it—this isn’t dirty talk. It’s the same thing I asked for. Touch me like you know I’m alive. He’s saying it back.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

“Again.”