Page 62 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

And even then… I’m still hungry.

Her pulse hasn’t even steadied yet. I can see it beating in her throat, feel it in her thighs under my hands. I kiss the inside of her knee one last time, soft, sealing the moment, then rise up between her legs.

She’s still blindfolded. Still floating.

“I want to see your eyes now,” I say, brushing her hair back as I gently tug at the silk knot. “I want you to see me when I finally get inside you.”

Her lashes flutter as the blindfold falls. Pupils wide. Still hazy with bliss.

“You doing okay?” I ask softly, brushing my thumb under her eye.

She nods, lips parted, dazed. “I feel…” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Ruined. In the best way.”

I will never recover from her.

I kiss her, slow, drugging, and start to undress her. Sliding down the zipper, easing her dress from her shoulders, kissing every new inch of skin, memorizing it with my mouth.

She helps me, arching for me when I reach behind her to unhook her bra.

And fuck, when she’s naked in front of me, flushed and undone, I forget how to breathe.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” I say, voice rough. “You don’t even know, do you? What you do to me?”

I make her lie back, and strip down myself, fast now, impatient. Because I’ve touched every inch of her, tasted every cry, and I need to feel her. Need to sink into the heat of her body and forget every moment I didn’t have this.

When I settle between her thighs, I keep my weight on my forearms, hovering, noses brushing.

“I’ll go slow,” I say. “I want you to feel every inch. Every second.”

She nods, barely, but her eyes say please.

When I finally push inside her, I nearly lose it. She’s tight, hot, wet from everything I did to her, everything I said. Her hands grip my arms, her back arches, and her mouth opens in a silent gasp.

I choke on a groan. “You feel, Christ, dove, you feel like heaven.”

I don’t slam into her. Not yet. I roll my hips, long and slow, letting her stretch around me, letting her feel how much I’m holding back. Because I could pound her through the mattress. I want to. But this moment? This is mine. Ours.

And when she moans something soft and helpless, “Don’t stop, oh God, Edgar, don’t stop” I lean down and kiss her like it’s the last thing I’ll ever do.

“Never,” I promise. “You’re mine now. You understand me?”

Her answer lives in the catch of her breath, the way her fingers curl tighter against my skin.

I give her more. Not rough. Not yet. Just deep. Meaningful. I want every thrust to say what I can’t. And when she starts to tremble again, when her nails dig into my shoulders and her moans get high and desperate, I praise her through it. Filthy, sweet things. A constant string of murmured worship.

“That’s it, let me feel you, good girl, so perfect for me, take it, take all of me.”

When she breaks again, I toe the edge, controlled, holding back.

Her eyes are still hazy, lips kiss-swollen, skin flushed where I’ve marked her with lips and teeth. I could sink into her now, release, but she’s looking at me like she wants more.

More than soft. More than tender. More than safe.

She wants the edge. And I’ll give her the blade.

“I have something,” I say, slipping off the bed. Her eyes track me, curious, until I pull open the drawer at the bedside and draw out the restraints.

Her breath stutters, a visible ripple through her frame, but then she relaxes as trust outweighs fear.

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