Armani didn’t pull out.
He stayed buried to the root, hips flush against hers, letting her feel every thick inch of him while her body still fluttered with the aftershocks of coming undone. His chest rose and fell in heavy drags against her breasts. Sweat slicked the space between them. The iron headboard had left faint red lines across her palms where she’d gripped it.
He lifted his head just enough to look down at her.
Her eyes were glassy, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and bitten red. Tears had dried in salty tracks at her temples. She looked wrecked. Beautifully wrecked.
And still defiant.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, voice gravel-rough. One hand slid up to collar her throat—not squeezing, just resting there like a claim. His thumb stroked the frantic pulse under her jaw. “Still
