Page 105 of Theirs to Hunt

"Grayson," she cried, raw, desperate.

"I need you."

I pulled my fingers free, lined myself back at her core, and drove into her in one deep, unrelenting stroke.

Her mouth opened. Mine did too.

There was no control left.

No edges.

Just need.

We moved in sync.

Her hips rolling.

Mine crashing into her.

Waves breaking against stone.

Her moans turned to pleas.

My name, again and again, the only word she knew.

And whenshe came—shaking, clenching, eyes locked on mine—I let go too.

We broke together.

Hard.

Quiet.

Devastating.

Not release.

Surrender.

Chapter eighty-five

Reagan, Tuesday 07:55 a.m.

We were still damp, wrapped in towels, the bathroom quiet except for the soft drip of water and the sound of our breathing.

He carried me to the vanity, and I sat there clinging to the edge of my towel, staring up at him.

He stood between my knees, watching. Waiting. He already knew something was coming.

I exhaled slowly.

“We should talk about birth control.”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tense.

Just nodded once.