Page 179 of Let Me In

Slow.

Sure.

Rhythmic.

Each stroke presses deeper, more claiming than the last—like he’s carving himself into me with purpose.

Each breath grows harder to hold, but he never lets me drift. His chest brushes mine with every thrust, heat radiating off him like a furnace, his muscles taut with control.

“Not gonna rush this,” he whispers, voice low and reverent. “Want you to feel it.”

“I do,” I breathe. “I feel all of you.”

He kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s pouring every unsaid promise into my mouth.

And when he thrusts again, just a little harder, a little deeper—

I moan. Not quiet, not controlled. Just his.

And he smiles against my skin.

“There’s my girl.”

That phrase... like thunder and shelter all at once. His voice wraps around me—low, rough, warm with praise and something fiercer. Possession. Awe. His mouth brushes my cheek, and I can feel the smile there, reverent and wrecked. Like he’s been holding back just to give me this.

He starts to move again. Long, deep strokes. Unhurried. But sure.

Like he’s teaching my body what it means to be his.

Every thrust brushes against something inside me that makes my breath catch, my legs tighten around his hip, and my fingers dig into his back like I don’t ever want to let him go.

He groans again—lower this time. Rougher.

His mouth finds my neck.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked, like the praise is a prayer and a possession all at once.

Another thrust. Deeper. Measured and claiming, thick and relentless.

I cry out—muffled but there.

It’s not pain.

It’s too much in the best way. A fullness so perfect it scrapes against the edge of pleasure and surrender.

And he hears it.

Feels it.

His whole body tightens like my voice called something feral to the surface—something that wants to take, but only because it worships.

His hand slides down to my thigh, spreading me wider.

“Breathe, baby.”

I try.

But it comes out shaky.

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