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It’s everything.

He doesn’t ease up. His rhythm is punishing, relentless, each thrust snapping my body forward against the bed, his pace brutal like he’s trying to fuck the defiance out of me, like he’s trying to fuck the magic out of me.

And I give it to him.

Every thrust, I pour more of it into him. Lust and hunger and something darker, slipping under his skin like poison and sweetness, weaving into his veins until I can feel him unraveling beneath it.

His breath breaks, a growl curling in his throat like he’s fighting it—but he can’t. Not now. Not with me pouring all of that want, that craving, that unbearable tether into every thrust, every drag of him inside me.

I hear him snarl, low and dangerous. “You’re doing it again.”

I don’t stop. I push back against him, arching into every brutal snap of his hips, spreading my legs wider like I can take more, like I can give more.

“Take it,” I gasp, voice rough and wrecked beneath the weight of what he’s doing to me. “You want it, Ambrose. Take it.”

His grip tightens, fingers digging into my flesh, bruising and possessive. His cock drives deeper, harder, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur, makes my magic spill harder, sharper, until it coils around him like chains.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he grits out, voice cracking like something’s breaking loose beneath it.

I smile, feral, even as I moan when he slams deeper.

“Yours,” I breathe. His pace stutters for a second, like he can’t fucking stand it—that I’m wrecking him while he’s trying to ruin me.

Then he lets go.

One hand slips around my throat, pulling me up against his chest without slowing, his mouth at my ear, breath ragged.

“You’re going to come again,” he growls. “And you’re going to feel every fucking second of me inside you.”

I nod, breathless, shaking, already right there.

He fucks me like punishment. Like absolution. Like he hates me for what I’ve done to him and wants to carve it out of me with every brutal thrust.

And I love it. I come again—harder this time, messier, my body collapsing into his hold as my magic slams into him like a tidal wave.

He chokes on it, hips stuttering, his grip bruising and frantic now, his composure ripped away completely. And when he finally follows, burying himself deep, growling my name like it’s the last thing holding him together—I smile.

Because I made him fall apart.

Again.

Ambrose doesn’t even get the chance to recover.

The second I feel him spill inside me, the second his hips stutter and his breath breaks against my ear like he’s finally, finally undone—I pour more into him.

It’s not subtle anymore. Not careful.

The magic crashes out of me, wild and consuming, threading through every inch of him like silk woven with barbed wire, like hunger wrapped in heat. It fills the cracks I’ve split open in him and forces them wider, tearing through the seams of his control until I feel him shudder, hands flexing uselessly at my hips like he’s trying to anchor himself.

It doesn’t work.

I don’t let him breathe.

I twist in his grip, dragging myself back onto the bed and flipping onto my back, legs falling open again, slick and wrecked and wanting.

“Again,” I pant, voice raw, throat wrecked. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes are feral now—glowing faintly, wild, lips parted like he’s drowning. And I know, I know, he’s about to say no. About to say I’ve poured too much into him, that he can’t hold it.