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“Okay,” he rasps. “Yep. Dead. I’m dead. This is death. You’ve killed me.”
“Silas.”
“I die happy,” he whimpers.
And gods, I love him. Even as I ride him hard enough to make him forget his own name. Even as he begs me for kisses, for more, for everything. Because this isn’t about control.
It’s about us.
And Silas?
He’s never more himself than when he’s worshipping me like this.
His hands flutter at my hips, fingertips pressing just hard enough to remind me he’s still here—barely. Every time I roll my hips down, he shudders like I’ve pulled another piece of him loose. His mouth opens on a broken sound that was probably my name, but it melts into a groan before it escapes his throat.
“Luna,” he pants, voice low and ragged, the edge of desperation weaving through it like a frayed thread. “Sweetheart… I don’t… I can’t—”
“You can,” I whisper, bracing my hands against his chest, nails dragging through the sweat-slicked muscle. “You’re going to.”
I don’t speed up. I don’t give him the release he’s begging for. Not yet. I want to feel it build again. I want to feel him quake beneath me, fall apart under me—not because he’s being pushed, but because he’s choosing it. Choosing me.
His eyes roll back for a beat, and when they open again, they’re hazy and glazed but locked on mine. There’s something in that look that makes my breath catch—not lust, not entirely. It’sdeeper than that. Cracked open. Raw. Like he doesn’t know how to worship me gently, so he gave me everything else instead.
“I love you,” he says it like a confession he’s carried for years. Like he’s just now realizing he’ll never say it enough times for it to feel real.
“I know,” I whisper, leaning forward until my mouth grazes his jaw. “Now show me.”
He groans when I clench around him, the sound torn straight from his chest like it costs him something. His hands slide up my ribs, trembling, reverent, like he needs to feel every inch of skin to remember this is happening—that I’m real, that I’m not a dream. I let him touch. Let him hold. But I don’t give him control.
My hips move with a steady rhythm, deep and grinding, every thrust hitting full and hard, dragging him deeper with each roll of my body. He arches beneath me like he’s trying to stay in it, like he’s losing himself at the same time he’s clinging to me.
“Luna, please,” he gasps, and there’s something about hearing him beg that lights me on fire. Not because I want power over him. But because I know how much it takes for him to let go like this.
“You’re doing so good,” I murmur against his ear, biting gently. “Let go for me. Come again. I want to feel it.”
He shudders violently. His fingers dig into my hips, not to guide me, but to ground himself as I grind down hard and slow, again and again, until he’s panting my name like it’s the only word he remembers.
And then he breaks.
He comes with a shout muffled into my shoulder, body shaking beneath me, arms wrapping around my waist like he’s trying to fuse us together. I feel every pulse of it inside me, hot and thick, his breath catching like he can’t keep up with how much I’ve taken from him.
I don’t stop right away.
I slow. Ease him through it. Rocking softly now, letting his orgasm stretch out as long as he can bear it, kissing his forehead when his eyes squeeze shut and he lets out a helpless, choked laugh.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he says, voice wrecked and slurred with bliss.
“No,” I whisper, still moving just enough to make him tremble. “I’m trying to remind you who you belong to.”
His arms tighten around me.
“You.”
Always me.
And as the aftershocks ripple through both of us, as the sweat cools and the room settles and he exhales into my neck like I’m his entire world—I know I’ll never want anyone else like this.
Because only Silas would let himself fall to pieces just to make me feel whole.