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“Wait,” I breathe.
He freezes. Not in panic but to wait for me to explain. It’s so him. Patient, even when he’s two seconds from breaking me in half.
“I have an IUD,” I whisper.
His jaw clenches slightly. His fingers flex around the foil packet before he tosses it aside. “You sure?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Fuck,” he groans as he positions himself between my thighs. He brushes my hair back from my forehead, eyes locked on mine.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. “I’ll stop if you need me to.”
That level of care, even now, makes my heart swell. I reach up, cupping his face with trembling hands.
“I want this,” I whisper.
He nods once, then slowly pushes inside me. The stretch is exquisite, bordering on pain but never quite crossing that line. He moves with careful restraint, watching my face for signs of discomfort.
When he’s fully seated, he stills, giving me time to adjust. His forehead drops to mine, our breaths mingling in the small space between us. There’s something different in his eyes now. Not just desire, but something stronger that makes my heart skip.
“So fucking tight,” he groans on a shallow thrust, thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I breathe, overwhelmed by the fullness, by his nearness, by the weight of his body over mine—protective rather than crushing. It’s so, so perfect.
He begins to move, drawing out almost completely before sliding back in with aching slowness. Each thrust is measured, controlled, like he’s savoring every sensation. His eyes never leave mine, his gaze intense and vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before.
His pace is unhurried. This isn’t fucking. This is something else entirely. Each slow drag of his body against mine feels like a confession, like he’s telling me things he can’t put into words.
“Whitley.” He breathes my name like a prayer, his hands cradling my face with surprising tenderness.
I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper, wanting to feel every inch of him. My hands trace the strong lines of his back, mapping the contours of muscle, the slight dampness of sweat gathering at the base of his spine.
The way he moves inside me, with such careful control, feels as if he’s reaching into my very soul. I want more. I want everything.
I need to feel him completely. I want his release deep inside me, marking me. The thought alone makes me clench around him, drawing a groan from his lips.
“Beau,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “I want to feel you. All of you.”
His rhythm falters for just a moment. “What are you saying?”
I cup his face, making sure he sees the truth in my eyes. “I want you to come inside me. I want to feel every pulse, every drop. Please.”
His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “Fuck, Whitley.”
“Please,” I repeat, tightening my legs around his waist. “I need it.”
Something snaps in him then, his careful control finally breaking. His thrusts become harder, deeper, more desperate.
His fingers dig into my hips, sure to leave marks, and I welcome them. I want them as proof that this happened, that he claimed me so thoroughly.
“Mine,” he growls against my neck, the word vibrating through me like a physical touch. “You’re fucking mine.”
“Yes,” I gasp, arching up to meet him. “Yours, Beau. All yours.”
He angles my hips higher, hitting a spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. I cry out, my nails raking down his back as pleasure builds rapidly, coiling tighter with each thrust.
“That’s it,” he urges, voice strained with the effort of holding back. “Come for me again. Be a good fucking girl and show me how good I make you feel.”
