Page 51 of Whisper

He doesn’t push.

Doesn’t mock.

Doesn’t even smirk.

He just waits. Still inside me. Still holding me.

But not demanding anymore.

Just—there.

A conqueror who knows the war has already been won.

He doesn’t speak.

But something shifts in him.

The dominance doesn’t vanish … It just—changes. Softens. Grounds.

His grip on my hip eases. The hand at my throat traces upward—thumb brushing the underside of my jaw, slow and warm.

Then—he pulls out.

Not fast. Not rough.

Just—deliberate.

Measured.

Like he knows what it’ll do to me.

And he’s right.

The emptiness steals my breath. My body pulses around nothing, left aching in its absence.

I don’t move. Can’t.

My cheek stays pressed to the mattress, skin flushed and damp, heart still hammering beneath the wreckage of everything we just did.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t fill the silence with reassurance or praise.

He just leans in, kisses the back of my shoulder—barely there. Not for show. Not for effect.

Just a man laying claim with his mouth, but gently this time.

Then he pulls the blanket up over both of us.

Lies down behind me.

His chest brushes my spine. One heavy arm slides around my waist. Anchoring. Not trapping.

His body curls around mine—heat and weight and quiet strength.

No words. No tension. No need to fix anything.

Just him. Holding me like I’m not broken.