CHAPTER 34 STUDIO SESSIONS NORA #2
"Off," he growls against my lips, tugging at the fabric. "Need this off. Now."
I help him, arching up so he can pull the dress over my head, and then I'm in nothing but my black lace lingerie and his eyes go almost blacker than the lace.
"Fuck," he breathes, taking me in. "Look at you."
His hands map my body—reverent but possessive, gentle but hungry—like he's memorizing every curve, every dip, every place that makes me gasp.
When his mouth follows the path his hands blazed—down my neck, across my collarbone, lower—I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair.
"Nate—"
"I know," he murmurs against my skin. "I know, Len I've got you."
Clothes disappear piece by piece—his jeans, my bra, until there's nothing left but my lace panties. He takes his time. Kissing every inch of exposed skin. Remembering what makes me whimper, what makes me moan, what makes my nails dig into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
His mouth trails down my stomach—slow and deliberate—and when he reaches the waistband of my panties, he pauses. Looks up at me and the grin that spreads across his face is absolutely devilish.
"These," he says, voice low and rough, "are in my way."
Before I can respond, he leans down and catches the lace between his teeth. Drags it down slowly—torturously slowly—his eyes locked on mine the entire time, watching me come undone from just that.
My breath catches. My hips lift involuntarily.
"Nate—"
He gets them halfway down my thighs before his patience runs out. His hands come up, grip the delicate fabric, and rip. The lace tears with a sound that makes heat pool low in my belly, and then they're gone, tossed aside, forgotten.
And there's nothing between us now.
Just skin on skin.
His mouth finds me immediately—kissing, tasting, learning me all over again—and I cry out so loud I'm glad we're the only ones here.
He's relentless. Learning me like a song he's composing, finding the rhythm that makes me fall apart. And when I do—when pleasure crashes over me in waves so intense I forget my own name—he's there, holding me through it, murmuring praise against my skin.
“Perfect,” he says, kissing his way back up my body. "So fucking perfect for me."
"Nate, please—"
"Please what?" He looks up at me, eyes fierce and tender at once, lips curved in a wicked smile. "Tell me what you need, Len."
"You. Just you. Please."
"I'm right here." He kisses the inside of my thigh, and I nearly come apart just from that. "Not going anywhere. Ever again."
I'm still trembling when he finally positions himself above me, braced on his forearms, looking down at me with eyes that hold everything.
"You sure you want this?” he asks, even though we're both desperate, even though we've been building to this for years.
"Yes. Fuck, yes. Nate, please—"
He slides inside me slowly—so slowly it's almost torture—giving me time to adjust, to feel every inch, to remember what it's like to be this full, this complete.
We both gasp at the contact.
"Fuck," he breathes, forehead pressed to mine. "You feel—god, Len, you feel—"
"I know. I know." My hands grip his shoulders, urging him deeper. "Move. Please move."
And he does.
Starts slow and deep, rolling his hips in a way that hits every nerve ending, makes me see stars behind my eyelids. Our bodies remember even though we tried to forget. The exact angle. The perfect rhythm. How to move together like we're two parts of the same whole.
"I missed you," I gasp as he moves inside me, as pleasure builds to almost unbearable intensity. "God, Nate, I missed this. Missed you."
He stills for just a moment, looking down at me with eyes that hold everything—wonder and relief and a love so profound it steals my breath.
"I never stopped missing you," he says, voice breaking. "Not for a single day. Not for a single fucking second."
Then he's moving again—harder now, deeper—and I'm meeting him thrust for thrust, nails raking down his back, legs wrapped around his waist pulling him closer, deeper, more.
"That's it," he growls, one hand gripping my hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside my head. "Take it, Len. Take all of me."
And I do.
Every thrust, every kiss, every whispered promise.
The pressure builds—coiling tight and hot and desperate in my core—and I know I'm close, so close, right on the edge—
"Let go," he murmurs against my neck, his rhythm faltering. "Come for me, Len. I want to feel you."
His hand slides between us, finding exactly where I need him, and that's all it takes.
I shatter.
My back arches off the couch, his name tears from my throat, and pleasure crashes over me in relentless waves—so intense, so overwhelming, so perfect I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel.
And I feel him follow seconds later—feel him shudder above me, inside me, around me, gasping my name.
For those suspended moments, nothing else exists. Not the past, not the future, not the fear or the pain or the years we lost.
Just this. Just us.
Just the feeling of being so completely connected that I can't tell where I end and he begins.
He collapses against me, both of us trembling and gasping and holding each other like we're afraid to let go. His weight is solid and grounding, his heartbeat thundering against my chest in perfect synchronization with my own.
"Mine," he murmurs into my neck, still buried inside me. "You're mine."
"Yours," I breathe back. "Always."
It's not just the beginning of something new.
It's the reclamation of everything we were always supposed to be.