Page 62 of Sadistic

"How so?"

"This I get to keep just for me."

She pulls me back up, kissing me hard. "Stop overthinking. Just... be here. With me."

So I do.

I stop cataloging and analyzing and just feel.

The way she moves against me, the sounds she makes, the heat of her skin—it all blurs together into sensation and need.

When I finally slide inside her, we both freeze, overwhelmed by the moment.

"Okay?" I ask, forehead pressed to hers.

"More than." She wraps her legs around me, pulling me deeper. "Move."

I do, setting a rhythm that has her nails digging into my back.

Everything narrows to this—to her beneath me, around me, the taste of her gasps and the feel of her body responding to mine.

Five years of fantasy could never compare to the reality of Revna coming apart in my arms.

She comes with my name on her lips, and I follow her over, burying my face in her neck to muffle my own sounds.

We stay locked together, both trembling with aftershocks, neither willing to separate just yet.

"Fuck," she breathes finally.

"Eloquent."

She smacks my shoulder weakly. "Shut up. I'm still processing."

I roll to the side, pulling her with me so she's sprawled across my chest. "Process away."

We lie in silence, her fingers tracing abstract patterns on my skin.

I play with her hair, marveling at finally being able to touch freely.

Outside, the city continues its nighttime symphony, but up here we're in our own world.

"This doesn't change anything," she says quietly.

"It changes everything."

"The wedding still happens. The arrangement still stands."

"Yes. But now it's not just an arrangement." I tilt her chin up to look at me. "Now it's a choice."

She kisses me instead of answering, and maybe that's answer enough.

We make love again, slower this time, learning each other's rhythms and preferences.

She's not passive—she takes what she wants, shows me what she likes, demands her own pleasure.

It's exactly what I should have expected from a woman who tells her father to fuck off in front of killers.

Afterward, we raid through the small kitchen in my suite—she's wrapped in my shirt, me in just boxers, both of us giggly from orgasms and lingering alcohol.

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