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Does it feel good?

It feels fucking amazing. I just don’t know how I’m supposed to explain any of this when my brain has apparently stopped forming complete sentences.

“Really good,” I manage, tightening my arms around him. “Don’t stop.”

He sinks back in. One long, unhurried stroke that bottoms out with a wet, obscenely beautiful sound.

My hips jerk upward before I can stop them — instinct overriding thought — and his breath hitches against my neck.

"There you go," he murmurs.

He repeats the motion. Out. In. Out again, each withdrawal a slow, dragging ache, each return a deep, filling pressure that pushes the air from my lungs.

The rhythm he builds is patient, deliberate, and maddening, each thrust a full sentence, each pause between them a breath I hold without meaning to.

"You take me so perfectly." His mouth finds the curve where my neck meets my shoulder, and his teeth graze the skin there — not biting, just resting, a promise of what he could do. "So tight, Quinn. So fucking wet for me. You feel that? How slick you are?"

I do. I can hear it now — the soft, wet sounds where our bodies meet, evidence of how badly I want this, want him.

The embarrassment I might have felt a while ago is gone, burned away by the slow, relentless build of sensation between my legs.

My hips roll to meet his next thrust. The movement is clumsy, unpracticed. I misjudge the timing and our bodies collide at an odd angle.

But Wyatt groans, low and rough, and his rhythm stutters for the first time.

"Fuck. Yes." His forehead drops to the pillow beside my head, and I can feel his breath hot and ragged against my temple. "Again. Move with me. Don't think, just feel."

So I do. The next thrust, I arch up to meet him, and the depth we achieve together punches a moan from my throat I didn't know I was capable of making. Raw, unguarded, desperate. His answering sound is darker, satisfied, hungry.

"Good. Good girl. Just like that."

He's speeding up now. Not fast, but faster, each stroke still deep and deliberate but carrying more force behind it. The mattress shifts beneath us with every thrust.

"You're doing so well, Quinn. Taking every inch. My perfect girl."

The praise sinks into me like heat into cold skin.

I'm moving with him now. Really moving, my hips finding the rhythm, my legs wrapping tighter around his waist to pull him deeper.

The panic is gone. In its place is something voracious and urgent, a need that claws up from my belly and wraps around my throat.

“More,” I hear myself say again, and this time the word isn’t a plea. It’s a demand.

He gives it to me, driving into me over and over until my body begins to tighten.

Wyatt notices immediately. “That’s it, Peachy. You’ve been here before, right?” His voice drops, somehow achingly tender and commanding at the same time. “You can do it again. Just let go for me. I’ve got you.”

Maybe it’s the way he talks to me, like he knows exactly what I need even when I don’t. Maybe it’s that impossible combination of Wyatt being so sweet and careful with me while still sounding like he expects me to do exactly what he says.

Whatever it is, I feel it coming, and this time there’s no stopping it.

The whole world seems to contract around me.

I bury my face against Wyatt, overwhelmed by how suddenly everything I’ve been holding onto disappears. Another one of those sounds escapes me, one that should probably embarrass me, except Wyatt is saying my name and holding me through it, and there isn’t room in my head for embarrassment anymore.

Then Wyatt groans against me, his body going tense before he starts shaking too, and there’s something almost overwhelming about knowing he’s right there with me.

Eventually, everything settles.