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“Patience,” I growl, wiping my fingers across her inner thigh, then lining myself up. “I need to feel you now. All of you.”

She stares up at me, dazed and desperate and mine. “Do it. I’m yours.”

With a low, guttural groan, I thrust inside her—slow, steady, claiming every inch. She gasps, eyes flying wide, her back arching as I sink all the way in.

“Jesus,” I grit out, barely holding it together. “You’re so tight, baby. So fucking perfect.”

I still for a moment, letting her adjust, letting myself not lose it right away. Her body clenches around me, pulling me deeper, and I grip her hips hard enough to leave marks.

“Now,” she pleads. “Please, Eddie. Fuck me.”

And then I move.

I drive into her hard, relentless, the sound of our bodies colliding echoing through the room. Her legs are locked around me, her moans getting louder with every thrust, her hands still fisted in the sheets like I told her to keep them there.

She’s shaking—not just from the force of it, but from how badly she’s holding back.

“I know you’re close,” I pant, pressing my forehead to hers. “I can feel it.”

“Please,” she whispers, completely wrecked. “Eddie, I need to—please let me—”

I pin her hands back down, kissing her roughly, biting her lip just enough to make her gasp.

“Not yet,” I growl. “You come when I say.”

She lets out the most desperate sound I’ve ever heard, her body twitching beneath me, so damn close to the edge it’s painful for her. And for me, too.

I thrust harder, deeper, and her mouth falls open, silent screams ghosting off her lips.

“You want to come?” I snarl against her throat.

“Yes! God, yes!”

“Then say it. Say who owns that body.”

“You do,” she gasps. “You do, Eddie!”

I snap my hips into her one final time and groan, “Then come for me, now.”

She shatters beneath me.

It’s primal, the way she falls apart—hips jerking, nails clawing at the sheets, head thrown back as she cries out, her orgasm ripping through her with wild abandon. She clenches around me so hard it takes me with her, my control completely gone.

“Fuck, Laney, fuck,” I roar, emptying into her, grinding deep as I spill every last drop, raw and bare and lost inside her.

I collapse onto her, shaking, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My chest heaves against hers, and I press kisses into her damp skin, her collarbone, her jaw, her lips—anywhere I can reach.

“I’m obsessed with you,” I murmur into her neck, too breathless to stop the words from tumbling out. “Laney… I don’t know how I’m supposed to last a second out there without you.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and in my head, I want to say more. I want to tell her I love her. That I’m falling hard. That she’s not just some fantasy. I want her real, every day, in my bed, in my arms, in my life.

But I don’t say it.

I’m scared. Not of the feeling but of what it might do to her. I don’t want to break this spell. Not yet.

And worse, there’s her.

The mistake I made last year, during a stupid, dumb night in Berlin, the one-night stand with that record label publicist who now won’t stop showing up at meetings like she still owns a piece of me. The label is insisting she comes on tour again, “for press coordination,” and the thought of Laney anywhere near that chaos makes my skin crawl. It’s easy for me to ignore the woman but my Laney is pure, sweet, and I don’t want that woman’s malignance near her.