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There’s no space for coherent thought. No logic. Just the searing stretch of him filling me, the press of skin on skin, and the sound of our bodies finding each other in the silence.

He’s big. Thick. Hot. Every inch of him fits inside me like he was built for this—for me.

Kingston groans, forehead dropping to mine as he sinks deeper. “Fuck, Mya…”

The sound of my name on his lips—raw, broken, reverent—nearly undoes me again.

He stills inside me for a beat, like he’s checking I’m okay. And I am. God, I am. More than okay. Every nerve ending is buzzing, every part of me burning, begging.

I grip his shoulders, nails sinking into the solid muscle there. “Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please.”

His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s less sweet and more claiming—rough, unfiltered, wrecked. “Not stopping,” he growls, voice thick with restraint. “Not ever.”

And then he moves.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

Like he’s trying to rewrite every memory I’ve ever had of being touched. Like he wants to burn himself into my bones and make damn sure I never forget what this feels like—what we feel like.

And I won’t.

I can’t.

Because this isn’t just sex.

It’s something else entirely.

“K-Kingston,” I stutter, trying to breathe evenly through every sensation in my body. “Harder. F-Fuck me harder.”

His body stills for a fraction of a second—just long enough for the air between us to crack like a live wire. His eyes, already dark and glazed with heat, go feral. The muscles in his jaw tighten. His breath shudders out, ragged and barely restrained.

“You sure?” he grits out, his voice low, almost guttural. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” My voice is barely a whisper, but it lands with the weight of a war drum. “I want all of you. Every part.”

That’s all it takes.

The restraint in him snaps like a rubber band pulled too tight for too long.

With a rough sound that’s half growl, half prayer, he pulls out just enough to make me ache with the loss—then slams back in, deep and devastating.

My back arches, a strangled cry ripping from my throat, and suddenly there’s no room for coherent thought. Just sensation. All-consuming, bone-melting, toe-curling sensation.

The rhythm he sets is punishing—powerful, rhythmic, desperate. But it’s not impersonal. No, this isn’t a man trying to scratch an itch or work off post-game frustration.

This is Kingston claiming me.

Owning me.

Loving me with his body in a way we’ve never dared to say out loud.

My hands claw at his forearms, slick with sweat. My name falls from his lips over and over again like a litany, each time more broken than the last.

“You feel… fuck, you feel unreal.”

Every thrust pushes the air from my lungs, every drag of his body against mine sets fire to my skin. The bed creaks, the headboard thuds against the wall, but it’s all background noise compared to the sound of our breathing—wild, raw, ragged—and the way our bodies crash together like waves breaking against the shore.

I’m close again. So close it’s terrifying.