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“I love your hair,” he murmured. “Like woven silk.”

I blinked at him in the mirror, watching as he shifted it over one shoulder, exposing the slope of my neck.

“Know what else I love?” he asked, his eyes never leaving mine.

“What?” I whispered, heart already starting to throb.

“These eyes,” he murmured. “You’ve had me by the throat with them since we were kids. Still do.” He moved closer, and his fingers ghosted over my cheek. “These. The way they flush when you’re embarrassed… or turned on.”

He trailed lower, brushing his thumb along my lower lip. “Your mouth. Drives me fucking crazy.”

Lower, fingertips grazing the hollow of my throat as he traced the jagged half-heart charm that still rested there. “This gets an honorary mention.” His tone dipped darker, rougher. “You still wear it.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

His hands continued their slow descent, brushing lightly over my chest until his palms curved fully around my breasts, thumbs teasing once over the peaks.

“These,” he murmured, giving them a slow, appreciative squeeze, “are perfection. Look how they fit in my hands. Like they were fucking made for me.” He lowered his mouth to my neck, dragging his lips across the skin before planting a kiss just beneath my ear.

His hands slid lower, ghosting down my sides before flattening over my stomach.

He held it gently, his thumb sweeping across the center.

“This is where our babies will grow someday. Right here.” His palm lingered, protective and possessive all at once.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Then his hands reached my waist. “These hips,” he said quietly, “I’ve imagined holding onto them more times than I’ll ever admit.”

His breath brushed the back of my neck. “When you ride me, when I bend you over, and when you sit on my face, these are what I get to hold onto.”

Lower still, he ran both palms over my ass, squeezing once, hard enough to make me gasp.

“This,” he growled, “has been mine since before you even knew what I wanted it for.” He slid one hand down the outside of my thigh, coaxing it gently open.

Then the other, he guided my legs apart, pressing until I was bared to him completely.

“You’ve always been a work of art,” he marveled, voice husky. “But like this, you’re a fucking masterpiece.”

His hand drifted lower, between my thighs, until his fingers brushed over my center—light at first, just a teasing glide as he traced the length of my slit. Up and down. Barely pressing. Barely touching. But every pass lit another fuse.

“You wanna know why I love this?” he murmured, his voice pitched low against the shell of my ear. “Because it’s always soaked for me.”

Another slow pass, more deliberate now.

I bit my lip, breath catching. My body trembled under his hands, the pressure of him behind me, the mirror in front of me, reminding me how utterly exposed I was. And how much I liked it.

“You know what I love most?” he asked, still stroking, torturing me with just enough to make me close to begging.

I swallowed hard. “What?”

“You,” he said simply. “Every inch. Inside and out. Every thought. Every scar. Every twisted, fucked-up thing you hide from the world—I love it. I love you.”

My eyes fluttered shut.

“Rye…” I whispered, voice raw.

He kissed the spot just below my ear again, one hand still between my thighs. His fingers slowed… then one slipped inside me.

“Fuck,” he breathed. I didn’t imagine it.

I braced a hand against the marble countertop, breath shuddering. His body remained solid behind mine, his chest to my back, hips just barely touching. Then his other hand rose and wrapped around my throat. Not tight. Just enough to hold me still.

He added a second finger, then a third, eliciting a moan from my chest. His hand on my throat tightened just enough to make me arch, the curve of my spine pressing my ass flush to him.

His fingers began to move, thrusting in and out in a slow, torturous rhythm that had my knees threatening to buckle.

Each glide sent heat curling deep in my belly, my breath fogging up the glass as I held his gaze in the mirror.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice gravel and smoke. “How can’t you see how beautiful you are?”

His hand at my throat gave one last squeeze before sliding away. I barely had time to recover before I felt him shift behind me, heard the quiet rustle of fabric, then the low groan that followed.

I didn’t have to ask what he was doing.

I could see it.

His sleep pants were shoved low on his hips, just enough to free his cock—and holy shit, he was stroking himself as he watched his fingers disappear inside me.

My lips parted, breath hitching.

“You see this?” he said roughly, eyes burning into mine through the glass. “That’s what you do to me.”

He gave himself another lazy stroke, the muscles in his forearm flexing. My body trembled under his touch, my thighs clenching, desperate for more.

“I could watch this all day,” he muttered. “You falling apart in my hands, watching me like you don’t know whether to beg or run.”

His fingers thrust deeper, drawing a choked sound from me as my body clenched around him, wet and pulsing with every movement. His mouth hovered at my throat, breath hot and possessive as he whispered praises between strokes.

He stopped abruptly and turned me around, lifting me like I weighed nothing, sitting me on the cool marble counter.

He moved between my thighs and went right back to fucking me with his fingers—this time adding a fourth.

I cursed, grabbing onto his shoulder as my body arched toward him, every nerve ending alight.

“Fuck, Rye—” I choked out, my nails digging into his shoulder.

His free hand tangled in my hair, yanking my head back so hard I saw stars. “Kiss me,” he ordered.

I kissed him like I was dying, and his mouth was the only thing that could save me. I moaned into him, my body trembling as my pleasure mounted. I reached between us, and when my hand finally touched his cock, I nearly came on the spot.

He was huge.

Not just long, but thick.

And there were piercings.

I had heard a rumor about these.

Barbells ran down the underside of his cock, cool metal against the burning heat of him. I traced them with trembling fingers, counting. One, two, three. How the hell did he even walk around with these things without it hurting?

“Eyes on me,” he commanded, tugging my hair again to force my gaze back to his.

“You’ll have time to explore later.” His voice was a promise and a threat all at once, and I shivered, my grip tightening around him.

My fingers didn’t even meet—he was that fucking thick—and the realization made my pussy pulse with want.

He was still working me with his fingers, thrusting deep and slow, curling them just right to hit that spot inside me that made my vision blur.

My thighs trembled around his arm, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I bit down on a moan.

I tightened my grip around his cock to ground myself.

He hissed, low and sharp, wrapping my hair around his fist.

“Ryder,” I moaned, the pain heightening my arousal.

He leaned in, lightly nipping my lower lip. “That’s it. Say my name like it belongs to you.”

My phone started to ring, vibrating against the marble. I didn’t look. Couldn’t. If I hadn’t been drowning in him, I might’ve caught the glint in his storm-colored eyes. The shift from teasing to lethal.

His mouth brushed my ear, his voice a whisper. “Why don’t we let him hear how you sound when you’re not pretending?”

He let go of my hair and reached for my phone without breaking rhythm with his fingers. He answered before I could protest and put it on speaker.

“Hey, I saw you read my text and figured you were up.”

As soon as Ashton’s voice filled the bathroom, Ryder pressed deeper, more punishing than before. I fought back a moan, and then another, curling into him like I could somehow disappear.

“Sanjana?” Ashton again, clueless as to what I was doing.

Ryder brought his hand to mine, wrapping his fingers around it, guiding me in stroking him, rougher now.

I was close.

He could tell.

If Ashton didn’t hang up, he would hear me come for the first time. I couldn’t stop it.

“Sanj, are you there?” Ashton’s voice was tinged with concern now, but it was drowned out by the sound of Ryder’s fingers fucking me harder, faster, his cock throbbing in my hand as I stroked him with desperate urgency.

“Answer him,” Ryder softly urged. “Tell him how busy you are.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but knew I couldn’t get one word out like this.

I bit my lip and shook my head. I was going to come.

The feeling built with ruthless intent, tension coiling low like a fuse winding toward detonation.

My hand tightened around his cock without thinking, my fingers slick with his pre-cum as I stroked him in time with the rhythm of his fingers inside me, overriding shame, guilt, everything .

I could feel every ridge, every twitch of his arousal as I stroked him, my thumb brushing over the swollen head just to hear him groan.

I pressed my face against his shoulder as I came, my body clenching as the orgasm tore through me, my barely suppressed scream echoing around the room.

The release left my legs trembling, thoughts splintering like glass.

What I didn’t expect was him.

The sudden, guttural sound he made as his hips jerked forward. His hand fisting against the counter so hard I thought he’d break the marble. Come coated my lower stomach and ran across my hand and dripped down his cock as he came with a force that left us both trembling.