sixteen #3
The way he looked at me made my breath catch.
He reached out, brushing his knuckles over the side of my throat. "You still sure?"
I didn't hesitate.
Instead of answering, I lifted my hands to his chest and gave him a gentle shove. He let me, stepping back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed.
His brows lifted, just a fraction.
I didn't give him a chance to smirk or say something smug.
I pushed again, firmer this time, until he sat.
His palms fell to the mattress behind him, arms braced, as he looked up at me with that same hungry, unguarded expression.
I stepped between his knees. My hand found the back of his neck, threading into his hair, tugging just enough to tip his face up to mine.
"You talk too much," I whispered.
Before he could answer, I kissed him—hard, unrestrained, like every thought I hadn't let myself voice was pouring into that single point of contact.
His hands came up, gripping my hips, but I didn't let him take control. I pressed him back until he was flat on the mattress, his breath hitching when I straddled his thighs.
I could feel the tension in him—every muscle tight, every instinct screaming to flip us over and take charge again.
But he didn't.
He let me settle over him, my knees braced against the sheets, my palms splayed over the warm planes of his chest.
"You look good like this," I said softly, my voice husky.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. "Don't push me."
I smiled—slow, deliberate—and rocked my hips just enough to make his breath stutter.
"Or what?"
His hands tightened on my thighs, fingers digging in.
I reached between us, guiding him back to where I needed him most. The first slick press made both of us suck in a breath.
His head fell back against the mattress, a low curse slipping past his lips. "Fuck, Amira—"
I didn't wait.
I sank down onto him in one slow, steady motion that left me trembling. The stretch of him, the heat—it was almost too much, too soon.
Almost.
He groaned, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck, the other bracing on my hip. "Look at me."
I did.
His eyes were dark, unflinching. "Ride me."
Heat flooded through me so fast I felt dizzy.
I lifted my hips, then eased back down, finding a rhythm that made my breath break in ragged little gasps. His hands roamed over me—my thighs, my waist, up to cup my breasts. He thumbed one nipple, rolling it between rough fingertips until I arched into his touch.
Every time I rocked down, his breath hitched, the muscles in his abdomen tightening beneath my palms.
"You're perfect," he rasped, voice almost gone. "You feel so fucking perfect."
I bit my lip, trying to hold on to some last shred of composure. But the look in his eyes—like he was completely undone and didn't care who knew it—made me shatter a little more each time I moved.
When I leaned forward to brace my hands on either side of his head, our faces close, he caught my mouth in a kiss that was all heat and desperation.
I rode him harder, chasing that edge I could feel building, every thrust of my hips sending a shockwave of pleasure up my spine.
His hands slid down to grip my ass, guiding my movements, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pulls.
"Don't stop," he groaned, voice breaking. "Fuck—just like that—"
I didn't.
When the orgasm hit, it felt like falling off a cliff—my body clenching around him, my vision going white at the edges.
He followed me over seconds later, his head tipping back, a raw, unrestrained sound tearing out of him as he came.
For a long moment, we didn't move.
Just lay there, tangled together, breathing each other's air.
His hands were still on my hips, not quite ready to let me go.
And I wasn't ready to move, either.
Eventually, the rush of it softened into something slower—warm and heavy and too easy to sink into.
His mouth brushed my shoulder, a quiet, absent gesture that felt almost like a promise.
And in the hush that followed, I let my eyes close.
His breath slowed against my shoulder, the heat of it damp on my skin. The weight of him was comforting in a way that scared me more than anything else.
I felt every place our bodies were still joined—how he hadn't pulled away, how I hadn't tried to make him.
It would have been easier if I could pretend this was just about wanting. About the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that had ever mattered. About the way he knew exactly how to touch me and exactly when to stop pretending he didn't care.
But the truth was, it wasn't just about any of that.
It was about the ache in my chest when he said my name like a confession. About the quiet I felt with him that I couldn't find anywhere else. About needing something from him I didn't have the language to name.
My pulse was finally steady again, but my thoughts were a mess—tangled and heavy and impossible to outrun.
His hand slid up, brushing a stray curl off my cheek. I didn't open my eyes. I didn't want to see how he was looking at me.
Because I already knew.
He was going to ruin me.