Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Soren
Her body’s still twitching with the aftershocks. Thighs parted, slick, and glistening with the mess I just made of her. And yet—she’s looking at me like she wants more.
Like she wants everything.
I kiss her inner thigh again. Then another up her hip.
One more just above her belly button, slow and open-mouthed, letting it linger.
Her hand slips into my hair and holds me there for a second—like she needs to catch her breath like she’s not sure if she wants me to stop or keep going until we both forget where we started.
I look up.
Her eyes are wide, lips parted, pupils blown so wide I can’t tell where the storm ends and the desire begins.
“Win,” I murmur, my voice low, rough from restraint and reverence. “Taste yourself for me.”
She blinks, then stills—completely still—for one beat, then two. I kiss the corner of her jaw, just once, soft and careful, like a promise I don’t dare say out loud. Not yet.
Then I kiss her mouth.
Not gently, but like I need her to know—feel—everything she does to me. Everything she is. I kiss her like I’m giving her the answer to every question she hasn’t dared to ask yet. Like I’m showing her what it means to be seen. Wanted. Worshipped.
She kisses me back with that same hunger—I know there’s no going back.
When I finally crawl up her body, her eyes meet mine—wide, dazed, filled with something I’m afraid to name but would give anything to keep.
“I want to be inside you,” I whisper, my forehead resting against hers. “But I need to grab—”
“My purse,” she breathes, voice shaky. “Top pocket. I have some condoms.”
Of course, she does.
I smile, kiss her one more time—soft and lingering—then roll off the bed long enough to grab her purse. She watches me, flushed and still open, her legs falling wider across the rumpled sheets like she’s never been more ready.
I find the foil packet, rip it open, and roll the condom on with a shaky hand. My cock is thick and aching, flushed with how badly I want her—but I don’t rush.
She deserves more than that.
When I settle between her thighs again, her hands are on my chest. Her eyes, still hazy with release, don’t look away from mine.
“You okay?” I ask, brushing my thumb along her jaw.
She nods, then whispers, “I want you. All of you.”
Fuck. My heart nearly gives out at that.
I kiss her once—deep, slow—then brace myself on my forearms as I guide the head of my cock to her entrance.
She gasps the second we touch.
I hold still. Let her feel me there. Let the moment stretch.
“I’m going slow,” I murmur. “If it’s too much—”
“Don’t stop,” she whispers. “I need to feel you.”
So I do.
I push in, inch by inch, watching her face the entire time. Her mouth parts. Her breath catches. Her hands slide up my back and hold on.
And I lose my fucking mind.
She’s so warm. So tight. The pressure wraps around me like a vice, stealing every coherent thought. Even through the condom, the feel of her makes me forget every reason we shouldn’t be doing this. There’s nothing between us now but want. Need—maybe even love.
Love that I’m not afraid to feel.
“You feel like heaven,” I groan, dragging my hips forward, slowly sinking deeper until I’m fully seated inside her.
I stay there. Still. Let her adjust. Let myself adjust.
Her arms wrap around me. Her legs hook around my waist. Her lips brush my jaw as she breathes, “Move, Soren.”
So I do.
Long, slow strokes at first. Every inch of me pulling out, then sliding back in until our hips meet again and again. Her body rises to meet mine like we’ve done this before. Like we’ve always been meant to.
I kiss her as I move—her mouth, her cheek, her neck—anywhere I can reach.
“You’re perfect,” I whisper. “You feel so fucking good. I could stay inside you forever.”
She moans, hips rolling to meet every thrust. And when I look down at her—really look—I see everything. Her need. Her trust. Her undoing.
“Win,” I say, voice thick. “Look at me.”
Her eyes lock on mine. And for a second, nothing else exists.
Just us.
Connected.
I slow my thrusts until it’s more grind than rhythm—until it feels like we’re breathing together, our bodies synced like a tide neither of us controls. Every time I roll into her, she gasps, her back arching just enough to drive me deeper. Just enough to unravel me.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, my forehead pressed to hers again, our skin slick, our pulses tangled. “You know that, right?”
She nods, breathless, eyes wild and soft all at once.
“Yours,” she whispers back. Like it’s not a surrender—but a promise.
I kiss her—slow and deep—then pull back just enough to see her face. “And you know why?” I ask, voice hoarse. “Because I’m yours, baby. Yours.”
She whimpers, clenching around me, and I nearly lose it.
“Touch yourself,” I growl, barely able to hold on. “Now. I want you to come while I’m inside you.”
She hesitates for half a heartbeat.
“Win. Do it.”
She moans and slides her hand between us, fingers moving with practiced desperation. Her head tips back. Her eyes flutter closed.
“Let me see you,” I whisper, my thrusts shallow and tight, barely holding back. “God, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”
Her thighs start to shake. Her fingers speed up. And I know she’s close—so damn close—just like me.
“That’s it,” I murmur, hand gripping her hip, anchoring us both. “Let go, baby. Come for me. I’ve got you.”
She cries out—soft and wrecked and perfect—clenching around me so hard I see stars.
I snap.
I thrust once. Twice. Then, all control shatters.
I bury myself deep and come hard, the orgasm ripping through me like it’s been waiting in my spine for weeks.
My whole body locks. Muscles straining. Every nerve ending sparking white.
It’s not just pleasure—it’s surrender. A full-body detonation that steals my breath and unravels every thread of composure I ever pretended to have around her.
Heat floods through me in waves, intense and overwhelming, until I’m gasping against her mouth—half-kissing, half-clinging—like I don’t know how to exist without this. Without her.
My vision blurs. My chest tightens. The air feels too thick and her skin too soft, and her breath too close, and fuck, I’ve never felt more undone—more alive.
More in love.
I don’t say it.
I don’t fucking dare.
But I feel it. Right there, in the way, I come apart inside her like she’s the only safe place I’ve ever known.
She holds me through it.
Legs locked tight around my hips. Fingernails biting into my back like she’s trying to leave proof we were here. Our mouths collide again—hot, open, breathless—as if we haven’t already taken everything and still want more.
I press my forehead to hers, still inside her, both of us trembling in the aftermath. Our hearts stutter against each other, frantic and uneven, like they’re trying to find the same rhythm and failing in the best possible way.
We stay there. Tangled. Spent. Shaking.
There’s nothing to say. Nothing I could say that would make sense when I feel like something in me cracked open and she’s just . . . there now. Lodged in a place I didn’t know existed that only belongs to Winnifred Wolfcraft.
This—this is what it means to belong. To feel claimed. Known. Touched everywhere, even where her hands haven’t been.
And fuck, I don’t know if I can handle it.
Because I ruin good things. That’s what I do. I overthink. I retreat. I sabotage.
I’m great at fucking up.
“Don’t think,” she whispers, voice hoarse, lips brushing mine. “This weekend is ours. We’ll deal with the consequences later.”
“Later,” I repeat, even though I already feel myself sliding toward the edge of something that doesn’t look casual at all.
Then I kiss her again.
Because I’d rather fall with her than pretend I’m not already halfway gone.