Page 62 of Desperate People

This is everything.

The hunger. The fear. The hope I swore I didn’t have left in me.

I collapse on top of her, too damn spent to move.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m on the outside looking in.

I’m right where I’m supposed to be.

With her.

I don’t know how long we’re like that.

All I know is I don’t want to leave—her warmth, her sweet body, her presence in my life—not ever.

Wrapping my arms around her feels like the most important thing I’ve ever done.

We’re tangled together, sweat-slick and panting, her body soft and perfect against mine.

My chest rises and falls like I just ran through fire and survived.

I’m still inside her.

My cock is buried deep in her soaked pussy, and we’re a mess—wet, hot, the evidence of both our orgasms dripping down my balls.

And I don’t give a single fuck.

Because I’m already hard again.

Still thick.

Still aching.

Still desperate to have more of her.

I cup her face gently, my rough thumb tracing over her cheek as I wait for her eyes to meet mine. When they do, it hits me like a punch to the ribs.

Those eyes.

They’re everything.

Bright and stormy and trusting. She looks at me like I’m not broken.

Like I’m something good.

And that, my friends, is a fucking first.

When I lean in to kiss her this time, it’s not gentle. It’s not polite.

It’s claiming.

Because God, I don’t think anything in this world feels as good as kissing Lucy Volkov.

Except maybe fucking her.

And I’m doing both.

I move inside her again—slow at first, shallow thrusts just to feel her around me.

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