Chapter Three
678 Words
He worked me over like he had all the time in the world and had already decided how this ended — slow and precise and wickedly focused, his hands holding me open, his mouth learning me with the specific attention of something that had been imagining this for years and intended to get it exactly right. He found the places that made me gasp and stayed there, methodical, relentless, until I was pulling at his hair and saying his name in a voice I didn't recognize as mine.
When I came the first time, his hands held me through it, kept me exactly where he wanted me, didn't stop. The sound he made was dark with satisfaction.
"Again," he said against me, and went back to work before I'd finished shaking.
The second time hit harder than the first — the kind that steals the air out of your lungs completely, that leaves you sprawled and trembling and absolutely unable to form words. He pressed a single kiss to the inside of my thigh afterward, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and was simply deciding what came next.
He rose back up over me, and his expression was raw and barely controlled, and I reached for him.
He rose back up over me, and his expression was raw and barely controlled, and I reached for him.
"Tell me what you want," he said. The command in it was velvet over stone.
"You," I said. "Now."
He pressed into me slowly — giving me time to adjust to the sheer size of him, the heat, the weight — and when I exhaled sharply he stilled, jaw tight, holding himself in check with visible effort.
"Okay?" he gritted out.
"Don't stop," I said.
He didn't stop.
He moved like he meant it — deep, rolling thrusts that built from careful to consuming, his hands gripping my hips with a possessiveness that left no ambiguity. The warmth of him was everywhere: his chest against mine, his hands holding me exactly where he wanted me, the heat of him inside me, filling me completely, moving in a rhythm that dismantled thought.
And the *hardness* of him — that was the thing that undid me completely. Not soft, not yielding, but smooth and unyielding like heated marble, reaching places that made my vision go white at the edges. Every thrust deliberate. Every angle chosen. Like he had thought about this specifically and was now executing it with four centuries of patience behind it.
"Look at me," he said, rough, when my eyes fell closed.
I looked at him. Four hundred years old, ancient and overwhelming, watching my face with the intensity of something cataloguing its most important discovery. He thrust harder and I cried out and his expression went feral and hungry.
"There," he said, low, adjusting his angle just slightly — and I shattered. Completely. The kind of climax that erases your name from your own head, that pulls sounds out of you that you didn't know you made.
He didn't stop. Rode me through it, kept that same relentless rhythm while I shook apart beneath him, his jaw tight, his control hanging by a thread.
"Again," he said. A command. Not a question.
He worked me back up with devastating efficiency — the hard heat of him, his thumb finding exactly the right place — and when I broke the second time he finally let go with me, his whole body driving deep and shuddering, a sound tearing out of him that was nothing like language, his hands gripping me hard enough to bruise, my name buried in his throat like something sacred.
We stayed tangled together afterward, both of us wrecked, his forehead pressed to my temple. He was breathing hard. Four hundred years old and *breathing hard.*
"That," he said finally, rough and low, "was worth waiting for."
I laughed — breathless, stunned — and he made a sound that might have been the closest thing to a laugh I'd heard from him yet.
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- Writer
