Page 47 of Only ever you-Ana & Byron
But he seemed to hover frozen above her. When she finally opened her eyes and looked, his face was carved in lines of control as his eyes bored into hers.
He looked at her like he'd been waiting his whole life for her to open her eyes to him again.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Then he started moving again.
Deeper. Harder. Fast.
He groaned, his voice wrecked with sensation, fingers digging into her hips as he drove into her like he couldn't help himself. She felt every inch of him, every desperate thrust. His mouth dropped to her shoulder, then her neck.
When he came, it was with a hoarse cry, his whole body shuddering over hers. She hugged him close in that vulnerable moment.
Then the silence was broken only by their desperate gasps for air
She lay beneath him, full and sore, his chest pressed to hers, his heart thundering against her ribs.
His cock pulsed inside her, still hard. Still deep.
When he finally withdrew, she felt the wet slide, the sudden emptiness, the heat spilling from her body. But he took her with him so that she was splayed on top of him.
They drowsed in silence, her body heavy atop his, his breath warm against her temple. Outside the glass walls, the city blinked and shimmered. Inside, time didn't seem to move.
Eventually, she felt him shift.
A gentle flex of muscle beneath her. Then arms sliding under her thighs and back. He carried her like she weighed nothing, like a ragdoll, boneless and dazed-down a short hallway dimly lit by recessed lights.
She squinted, trying to make out the space. Impressions flitted through her brain. Bedroom, maybe. King-sized bed. Navy linen. Minimalist. Masculine. But he kept going.
Instead, he nudged open a door and carried her into a cool, softly lit en-suite.
Before she could speak, he set her down on the toilet.
She blinked up at him, disoriented, trying to focus without her glasses.
"Have a wee," he said, voice casual, low. "You don't want a UTI."
She stared. "Get out."
He gave her a look-somewhere between amused and unimpressed. "Ana. Pee."
She gave him an outraged look.
"I said, get. out. I can’t pee with you standing there like that."
He held up his hands in mock surrender but grinned as he stepped out, leaving the door slightly ajar like he didn't trust her to follow orders.
She could still hear him moving around outside, bare feet on wood. A drawer opening. A cupboard clicked shut. Then, after a pause-
"I put your glasses on the sink," he called. "I have a shirt for you if you want. But I prefer you like you are right now."
Ana muttered something rude under her breath and did what she had to do, body still aching, legs still trembling. The post-coital reality was setting in, blurry, damp, sore, and oddly at peace. Like this is where she was supposed to be. Ever since the blast, she had this irresistible urge to see Byron. To finally give what was between them a try.
When she stepped out a few minutes later naked as the day she was born, he was standing by the bed holding a bottle of water in one hand and two paracetamols in the other. Her skin still held the sheen of sweat, her hair damp at the roots, wild down her back.
She was naked.
Byron looked up from where he'd been fiddling with the bedding. And then he looked, really looked at her.
