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He groans—pained, guttural, wrecked.
“I know. And you hate me for it. Say it. Say you fucking hate me.”
“I do,” I sob, tears blurring my vision as my body breaks open beneath him. “I hate you. I hate you—I hated every second without you?—”
He slams in deeper. Filthy. Brutal. His cock thick and unforgiving inside me.
“Say you missed me,” he growls.
My voice breaks.
“I missed you.”
“Say you’re mine.”
I choke on the truth. The ugly, beautiful, ruinous truth.
“I never stopped being yours.”
His rhythm turns savage. He grabs my thigh and throws it over his shoulder, angling himself deeper. Harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin is thunder in the room, echoing off the walls, tangled in the moans and whimpers tearing from both of us.
He fists my hair. Leans in. Presses his forehead to mine like a prayer.
“I’m going to come so deep inside you,” he snarls, “you’ll feel me every time you fucking breathe.”
And I do. Because I’m already full of him. Full of everything he is—fury, grief, guilt, love twisted into obsession.
I cry out as I come, my whole body seizing under him, and he follows with a roar—hips jerking, cock throbbing, fingers bruising into my waist as he buries himself to the hilt and stays there. Breathing hard. Shaking. Inside me. Still inside me.
Neither of us speaks. Because right now, there’s nothing left to say. He didn’t just let himself back in.Because he never even left.
Saxon’s weightis still on me. Not crushing or heavy. He’s justthere.Like an anchor. Like maybe if he stays long enough, this will feel more permanent.
He doesn't speak or move. He breathes against my skin. Slow. Shaky. Buried in the crook of my neck like he’s afraid to look me in the eye.
His chest is slick against mine. His heartbeat thunders intomy skin. His hands—usually so rough, so deadly—are now nothing but gentle pressure at my waist, thumb brushing lazy circles into my hip like he can’t stop touching just one part of me. Eventually, he shifts. Pulls out of me with a groan, curses under his breath when I whimper at the loss.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ve got you.”
He disappears for a moment—bathroom light flickering on—then returns with a warm towel, soft and damp. He cleans me carefully, like I’m made of something precious. Like I might shatter. But I don’t. I let him touch me. I let him care for me.
When he’s done, he climbs back into bed beside me, dragging the covers up around us both. I curl into his side without thinking. My cheek finds his chest. His arms lock around me like he’s afraid I might disappear.
He doesn’t sayI love you.But his hand finds mine under the blanket and laces our fingers together. He doesn’t sayI’m sorry.But his lips press to my forehead like he means it more than an apology could ever cover.
I shift, just enough to look up at him.
“You’re still shaking,” I whisper.
“I won’t lose you again,” he says.
“Don’t leave me,” I whisper, as though that’s confirmation of the only way he could possibly lose me.
“I won’t.”
I rest my hand over his heart. Feel it thudding. Strong. Uneven.Alive.His eyes meet mine. Glassy. Wrecked. Like he’s been bleeding from the inside for years and only just realized he’s still alive.
He doesn’t say the word. Neither do I. But it’s there. Thick in the air between us. Lodged in the silence. Screaming behind his clenched jaw, echoing in the spaces between his ribs. Because love doesn’t always need a name. Sometimes it’s carved into the quiet.