Page 313 of Let Me In

To wrap around her with my whole self.

Every inch of skin to skin feels like return. Her warmth bleeding into my chest, her softness easing the last of the ache inside me, syncing my breath with hers like a tide finding its rhythm again.

Like gravity.

Like home.

She opens beneath me.

Because she trusts me to come closer, not take too much.

To let me in.

I feel her breath stutter beneath me.

Feel her hands slide down my back, anchoring there.

Feel the soft bend of her knees as they draw up, thighs brushing my hips.

I feel the first press of her. Warm, tight, dripping for me—welcoming in a way that almost buckles my restraint. As she whimpers from the first burn of the delicious stretch, I groan. From the recognition of her. Of this.

The stretch is slow, my whole body trembling with control I’m barely holding onto. Because it’s not just my body entering her. It’s everything I’ve carried since I left. Guilt. Distance. The coldness of the salt water. My past pressed against my chest like a loaded gun.

And now—now I’m sinking into her. Letting all of it go. Letting it melt in her heat. Letting it be swallowed whole. With a groan that sounds like it’s been clawing at my throat for years—

She gasps.

Quiet. Aching.

Her back arches just slightly, lips parting.

Her hands find my shoulders, gripping firm and sure—not out of fear, but with the quiet urgency of someone anchoring herself to what feels safe. What feels right.

That pure, quiet kind that says stay.

I still, buried to the hilt, my cock throbbing inside her slick, welcoming heat, feeling it surround me and take me in like I belong. I press my forehead to hers, our breaths tangling in the space between us. Her fingers flex gently against my skin, grounding me further, and I feel it.

That moment where the world falls away. Where there’s no past. No pain. No blood on my hands. Just her, and me, and this.

Not lust. Not release. But return.

The kind that says you are mine.

I am yours.

And there is nowhere else I’d rather be.

I groan again, low and guttural—not from need, not just from pleasure, but from the weight of it. The gravity of being here. Inside her. Claimed and claiming. Her warmth pulls me in, holding me like I’m not a burden but a homecoming.

The way she takes me in. Not just my body, but everything. The way her thighs tighten slightly, her breath hitching, her hips tilting to cradle me deeper. It’s not just reception; it’s welcome. Full-bodied and instinctive.

She lets me bring all of it.

The history, the violence, the shame.

Doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t close off.

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