Page 125 of Unclench Me Softly

He keeps going.

Praise spilling from his lips like a sermon between kisses.

“One more.”

“That’s it, baby.”

“Let go again. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

“Be good for me. Come for me.”

And I do.

Again.

Wrecked. Ruined. Whispering his name like it’s sacred.

As he moves up my body, kissing a slow, wet trail up my stomach, over my breasts, along the frantic beat of my heart, I think I might already be half-feral with need.

And when he finally, finally, thrusts into me, slow and deep and devastatingly full, he groans against my mouth like it’s too much, like I’ve just unraveled something inside him too.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he grits out, voice shaking, forehead pressed to mine. “And I’ve been so good for so long. I’ve earned this.”

He pulls back, just enough to make me whimper, and then sinks in again, long, slow, deliciously deep strokes that make me feel stretched, wrecked, filled in a way that feels less like fucking and more like being rewritten from the inside out.

Every thrust is matched to a word.

Every word carves itself into my skin like a velvet knife, sharp and soft all at once.

“Mine.” Another thrust, deeper, harder, slow enough to feel every inch.

“Perfect.” A roll of his hips that drags a broken sound out of me I can’t control.

“So good.” His hand finds my throat, not squeezing, just holding, anchoring me to the moment, and I swear I could come from that alone.

“Taking it all.”

My nails rake down his back without permission.

He groans like it’s a prayer he can’t swallow. “God, you’re everything.”

I am nothing and everything at once. A storm. A sacrament. A body made of glitter and ache and a desperate, holy kind of wanting.

And when he tells me, his voice so low and sweet and devastating, “Come for me, Bliss, let go, baby, that’s it,” I break.

I shatter so hard I sob, full-bodied, helpless, my whole body clutching around him like I’m trying to pull him deeper, trying to keep him stitched to me forever.

He holds me through it, rocks me through it, kisses my face, my mouth, my heart like he’s memorizing me.

“Good girl,” he whispers against my skin, against my soul. “So good. So fucking good.”

And all I can think, through the wreckage of my own body, through the glittering static in my head, is, this is what it feels like to be loved with intention, and absolutely, unapologetically ruined.

He doesn’t pull away.

Not when I’m still trembling, not when I’m gasping little broken sounds against his neck, not even when I’m so far gone I’m half-sobbing into his skin like he’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth.

He just holds me. Strong arms wrapped around me, a hand cradling the back of my head.

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