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“Can you stand?” he asks, voice hoarse, already helping lower me back down to my feet like I’m porcelain and fire all at once.

I nod, barely steady, and then he stands and spins me around.

My hands hit the wall.

His chest presses to my back.

And the heat of him wraps around me like a storm about to break.

He licks up my neck, his stubble scraping just enough to make my breath hitch.

Then he growls, low and deep, vibrating against my spine as he cages me in with his massive arms.

* * *

“So fucking hot for me, aren’t you, Mo Chroí?” he rumbles, voice gone dark and hungry. “S’perfect. Just like this. Lean forward. Yeah, that’s it. Gonna fill you so fucking good.”

But he pauses. His hands roam.

Slow, reverent, smoothing down over my shoulders, down my sides.

Then they grip the hem of my T-shirt.

And without another word, he rips it.

“Need to see you. So fucking beautiful.”

The fabric tears like paper beneath his hands, and the raw sound of it makes my pussy clench, a fresh rush of slick soaking down my thighs.

Gods.

It’s the power in the act.

The unfiltered, unchecked way he handles me, with purpose and possession. But never with fear. Never with cruelty.

Just hunger.

Devotion.

He tosses the shredded shirt to the floor and leans in to kiss my spine, one hand sliding down between us to cup my sex again.

“So soft, so sweet. And mine, Arliss. Hear me? All mine.” His voice is velvet-wrapped gravel. “Gonna love you so good you forget anything, everything that came before me.”

And then I feel him.

He’s so big and hard. Velvety soft.

We both groan as he notches himself inside my pussy, then he flexes and slides all the way inside.

“Fuck,” he growls.

Thick, perfect, stretching me slowly and so very deep.

I cry out his name like it’s my salvation.

“Kian!”

And right here.