"Love Confessions, Emotional Arson as Foreplay, and the Art of Begging—Our Favorite Kind of War"

By the time the car slows in front of the hotel, the city is half-asleep — streetlights buzzing, restaurants closing, heat still clinging to the pavement like it doesn't want to let go. I wake up groggy, cheek pressed against August's shoulder, mouth dry, spine half-bent in the shape of the backseat.

His hand is still resting on my knee. Light. Present. Like nothing about this day shook it.

Nick eases the car up to the curb, just barely stopping before yelling, "ROLL OUT, POST-TRAUMATIC POWER COUPLE!" like he's been waiting the entire ride for that moment. We get dumped unceremoniously onto the sidewalk like emotionally fragile luggage.

August climbs out first, then turns and offers a hand to help me up like I haven't already cried into his chest and fallen asleep on him in public today.

I'm still trying to reassemble my brain from whatever deep-space zone-out I just emerged from when he says, quiet, offhand:

"I was thinking... now that we're officially in love and emotionally wrecked — can I take you on a real date? Like, one where we sit down and eat things?"

I blink at him, then snort, dragging my hand over my face. "God. I feel like I just completed a full year of therapy in six hours. I don't need a date. I need a hot shower, a blackout curtain, something greasy, and possibly medical sedation."

He shrugs. "That still sounds like a date."

"You got medical sedation?"

"I've got room service and very low standards for romance."

I squint at him. "What are you offering? Something FDA-approved?"

"What's the legal version of valium?"

"Margaritas."

He nods. "Room service, showers, margaritas, sleep. That's a date now."

I laugh — or try to. It comes out thin, the sound barely clearing my throat. My body's not sure if it wants to collapse or combust. Still, I follow him through the lobby, light-headed and sun-drunk and full of something I haven't named yet.

We don't talk. We don't have to. The silence between us has shifted — not the absence of words, but the presence of something else. Like we both know what's coming, but no one's willing to break the seal yet.

August presses the elevator button. A flicker of gold light passes over his face — warm, unbothered, way too composed for someone who held my wreckage just hours ago. Then again, maybe that's why he's so steady now. Like he's earned the quiet.

His hand brushes the small of my back as the doors open, and I step in like gravity told me to.

The elevator is empty.

The doors seal shut like they've seen things.

And suddenly it's just us.

Everything changes.

The air tightens. The light dims just slightly. And in that split second of silence — real silence — it hits me: we are completely, undeniably alone. No audience. No buffer. No Bo in the front seat or Nick narrating from the peanut gallery. Just me. Him. And the aftershock of everything we didn't say on the mountain.

He stands beside me — not touching, not speaking — but his presence pulls at me like a magnet. I can feel the heat of him, the way his arm nearly grazes mine, the tension curled in his shoulders like he's restraining more than just words.

I've cried on him. Slept on him. Let him hold pieces of me I don't let anyone else see. But this? This silence, this space, this breathless nothing?

It's somehow the moment that makes my throat tighten like I'm in real danger.

He doesn't look at me. Not yet.

But he knows. I can feel it in the way he stands — still as stone, but ready. Like he's giving me space to speak or flee or catch fire.

I glance sideways, pulse tapping at my throat. "So..." I say, too dry to be casual, too casual to be safe. "Sedating your dates — that your thing now? Very Jane Austen meets felony."

His mouth twitches. Just a flicker. "You said margaritas."

"You offered unconsciousness and low standards."

He shrugs, infuriatingly calm. "Can't argue with results."

I snort, sharp and involuntary. "Should've taken the beige fuck doll. She probably wouldn't have mouth-breathed into your collar like a haunted baby monitor."

That gets a real laugh out of him — low and warm and entirely inappropriate for the heat crawling up my neck. His eyes drag to my mouth, deliberate, then back to my eyes like he never left.

"She also wouldn't have told me to fuck off seventeen times before noon," he says, voice dipping.

I tilt my head, pretending I'm not already imagining his hands on me. "So... you're into the verbal abuse."

He turns slightly — just enough that his chest nearly brushes mine. I feel his breath when he speaks.

"I'm into you," he says, quiet and razor-edged. "Even when you're trying to scare me off."

My stomach flips. Heat coils low. "Maybe I'll bite harder next time."

He smiles — slow and devastating. "Good. I've been dying to know if that would actually shut you up."

I raise a brow. "You think kissing me would be enough to make me quiet?"

He shrugs, gaze steady. "If it stops working, I've got options."

I step closer. One inch now. I can feel his heat in my teeth. "Oh yeah? What's your backup plan?"

Without missing a beat, he leans in — his hand planting above my head against the wall, eyes never leaving mine.

"How about pinning you to this elevator wall until you forget your own name?"

My breath stutters.

"That your fantasy?" I whisper. "Me, silent and compliant?"

He lowers his head just enough for his lips to brush mine with nothing but breath. His body doesn't touch me anywhere else. It doesn't have to.

"No," he murmurs. "My fantasy is you — wrecked and wordless. There's a difference."

My fingers curl into fists. My knees feel loose. Everything in me is screaming do it.

"You'd probably just end up begging for silent and compliant," I fire back, voice unsteady.

His gaze drops to my mouth. His tone softens to velvet and sin.

"Frederika," he says, "I want the version of you that talks back while begging for more."

That's it.

My hand knots in the front of his shirt at the same time his mouth crashes into mine. One second we're holding the thread — the next, we're tearing it apart. His other hand finds my jaw, tilts my face like he's memorizing the shape of it. The kiss is fast, hard, messy — all heat and no hesitation.

I let go. Of everything.

My back hits the wall. His body follows, all steady pressure and impossible warmth. His mouth moves like he's been waiting for permission and now he's got a lifetime's worth of things to say. My fingers dig into his shoulders. I kiss him back like I need something to survive it.

And maybe I do.

Because this isn't the kind of kiss you forget. This is the kind you feel afterward — under your skin, between your ribs, wherever your regrets usually live.

And I don't want to regret a second of it.

The elevator dings, but I barely register it before his arms are around me.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing — like he's done it before in dreams he doesn't talk about — and my legs wrap around him like muscle memory. Like I've never stood anywhere safer than against him.

I don't even remember pressing a floor. I don't care. Wherever we're going, he knows. And I trust him to get us there.

My back hits something cold — a door, I realize, just as his mouth breaks from mine. We're both breathless. His hand fumbles for the key card, and I feel the sharp buzz of it scan, a soft click.

And because I haven't said anything stupid in the last thirty seconds, I lean in and bite his neck — gentle, slow, intentional.

"Last chance," I whisper against his neck. "Superiority kink, or am I just ruining your self-control?"

His answer's clipped. Gritted. Like it's taking everything not to lose it.

"I might develop one if you keep running your mouth like that."

I smile, bite-soft against his jaw. "Okay, but—no kink for awkward pharmacy runs, right?"

He groans — dark, wrecked — and still somehow smirks.

"Just trust me, for fuck's sake."

He doesn't sit me down — he lifts me onto the desk like I weigh nothing.
His hands find my shirt, and he unbuttons it like it personally offended him, just to drag his mouth down my neck, searching. Discovering there's no bra between him and his next target, he groans — low, primal, perfect — as his mouth finds my breast.

My hand dives into his hair, and the second his teeth graze me, my back arches, begging for more of whatever voltage he's already started.

He trails back to my throat, breath catching. "Like this shirt?"
His kisses are hot, messy, impatient as he yanks at the fabric.

"What'll the giant say?" I tease, laughter spilling into his mouth.
"Fuck the giant," he growls — then, almost as an afterthought, "Don't." It comes out wrecked, half-lost in a moan.

I find the side of his neck, bite his earlobe, and whisper, "I plan to. Very soon."

That earns me a growl — and a flurry of buttons scattering across the floor.
He strips the shirt off me, only for my legs to wrap around him again, pulling him in. My arms lock around his neck, nails dragging along his skin like my body's begging for more — closer, deeper, now.

But then he pushes me back — onto the bed — and I let out a protest.

Until I see him peel off his T-shirt.

The sight alone could earn him my forgiveness for a decade. My pulse spikes as he climbs onto the bed, between my legs, eyes burning, grin reckless. There's mischief in his smile, yes — but want in his gaze, wild and focused, and it only gets more devastating the closer he gets.

He settles on top of me — not heavy, not careful. Intentional. Pinning me in place like he's declaring war on personal space.

And when our lips meet again, my whole body short-circuits.

Any soft sounds I made before? Whispers.
This — this is the storm.
I can't control my breathing, let alone the soundtrack my body insists on playing.

He finds my jaw and lifts himself just enough to hover above me, breath warm, gaze locked to mine like he's waiting for something only I can give. And then he smiles — not wide, not sweet, just that smile. The kind you don't plan. The kind that my lips invented because of him.

It hits me hard, low, everywhere at once — I don't think I've ever wanted anyone like this. Not with my whole body already answering for me. Something shifts in his eyes, darkens, sharpens — and then he kisses me again, harder this time. Like that smile sealed something. Like it was the answer he'd been holding out for.

The sheer force he meets me with makes my body flinch — like it's too much and still not nearly enough. My hands grip his back, desperate to pull him closer even when we're already colliding, nails dragging when need tips into something messier.

There's no restraint left. No hesitation. Not from him. Not from me.

And when he pulls back — just for a second — the cold rush of space makes me let out a moan of protest.

But then his mouth is on me again, trailing desperate, uneven kisses down my skin like he's trying to claim every inch.

It feels like my spine is doing interpretive dance — some chaotic spiral of please kiss me again and please don't stop going lower. But I don't even get to decide. He's already tugged me to the edge of the bed, and my hips betray me, lifting the second his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties. He slides them off, shoes included, with the care of someone unwrapping an ancient relic.

Then he looks up — straight into my soul — like this is a showdown. Like he's making sure I see what's coming. And then, without breaking eye contact, he lowers himself, kissing a line down the inside of my leg like it's a runway he plans to land on. I push up on my elbows, and I don't know if it's me or my heart that's about to break apart at the sight.

He helps himself like he owns the place — and I lose every last coherent thought for it. My body reacts on instinct: hands tangling in his hair, thighs tightening around him like I can drag him impossibly closer. Every moan that slips out of me feels like it should come with applause. Or a trophy. Or at least a five-star rating.

And when he takes me over the edge — holy hell. My skin lights up like it's been waiting its whole life for this. He doesn't just let it happen; he draws it out, holds me right at the breaking point, like he's studied my reactions and is determined to ruin me for anyone else. By the time I manage to lift my head, breath still missing, I find him already watching me from between my legs — standing tall, smug as sin, wearing a smirk so criminally earned it might be my new religion.

He undoes his jeans, slow like he's testing the last of my self-control, then kicks them off along with his underwear. They hit the floor somewhere behind him. I sit up slightly, panting and already wanting, but then—my eyes catch on the ink.

A melting clock marks the center of his right thigh—fine-lined, minimalist, like a Dali fever dream sketched in a rush. The corners drip like time gave up trying to be held. On his left, a sunflower the size of a coin, crooked and wobbly, all uneven lines. A child's drawing. Not art—just love.

Not symmetrical. Not meant to be. And I'm not ready for how much I want to ask about them. Not now. Not when I already feel like I'm about to shatter.

He doesn't say a word, just finds the foil wrappers, tears one off, and tosses the rest on the bed like it's both a dare and a promise. His eyes don't leave me—dark, certain, slow-burning—and when he strokes himself to readiness, it's with the kind of composure that says he knows exactly what it's doing to me. All of him is bare and bold and completely in control.

The sight hits me low and sharp. There's nothing hesitant in him. No pause, no apology. Just the confidence of someone who already knows he's undone me and plans to do it again. And God, I'm into this version of him—the quiet danger, the ease, the way he looks at me like I'm something to ruin softly, thoroughly, until I forget how to ask for anything else.

He lets a beat pass, and I feel it—his eyes raking over me like he's memorizing a secret. A slow, deliberate drag of a glance, unapologetic and scorching. I watch the color shift in his gaze, the intensity sharpening. He's not just looking—he's cataloguing, claiming, like he needs to know every detail before he ruins it. Naked on his bed, wanting him more than I've ever wanted anything. I've seen his eyes like this before—the loanshark in Copenhagen, the alleycat in Amsterdam. Sizing me up. Calculated. Hungry.

And then—he pushes my legs aside, slowly coming near, until he's hovering over me.

No hesitation. No question. He cages me in with his arms, one hand braced beside my head on the mattress, the other trailing slowly down my ribs like he's checking what belongs to him. My mouth is on everything he lets near me. His hips settle between mine, not heavy, just grounding — the kind of weight that pins you in all the right ways.

He kisses down my breast, unhurried, deliberate, then up the column of my neck, and by the time he reaches my jaw, my fingers are already tangled in his hair. I pull him in, desperate for his mouth on mine — not because it's sweet or tender, but because I can't stand another second without it.

His kiss is deep, greedy, like he's been waiting to devour me all day. I kiss back harder, hips arching to meet his, like maybe if I push close enough, I'll finally get to become one with him.

But even with his full body on mine, it still doesn't feel like enough.

I want his skin. His mouth. His hands. Everything, all at once. I want him inside, and around, and underneath. And the fact that he's taking his time — still holding back — makes me want to scream.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. Really look. My thigh slides higher around his waist, he locks his fingers in mine, locks them in place above my head. My eyes must convey the surprise, not protesting, intrigued.

He kiss my neck, "Can't have you trying to make a run for it" and then a devastating smirk forms on his lips, and it does too many things to my body, already short-circuited by the heat, I mutter,

"Do your job right, and I won't"

Then gets him to rolls his hips—slow, unrelenting—until he's where I need him, pressed right against me.

My eyes nearly slam shut, but I stop them. I want to see this. Him. The heat in his face. The restraint in his jaw. The flush across his chest. I want to watch him fall apart, just like he watched me.

He thrusts, deep and steady, and whatever I let out is desperate — loud, unfiltered, It's all too much and not enough. My nails dig into his back, dragging down as my legs lock tighter around him. He groans low in my ear, like he's trying to keep control, but it's slipping.

His pace builds, hips rocking into mine with precision that feels borderline illegal. Every movement hits something that makes me twitch, or moan, or forget my name. I only want more of him, and I only know one way. I roll us over with every strength I have, Barely leaving his lips, blessingly so, because the moans he lets out is more than I think my ego can handle.

I press myself down onto him, probably more than gravity would think is safe. My body's rising fast, too fast, and I fight it—try to stay in it, stretch it, savor it—but it's no use.

I fall apart with his name on my tongue, half-whispered, half-moan, all want. He watches every second of it, and doesn't look away. And then he rolls us back over, picking up his pace faster than before, like he's not just trying for aftershock but a whole new wave comes crashing - at this point I think it might be both.

He follows me. His rhythm falters. His breath stutters. His body tenses above me, then shudders through it like he's unraveling from the inside out.

Our bodies tangled, slick with sweat, breaths uneven, hearts still sprinting. And for the first time since this whole fucking day started, my head is finally quiet.

When I kiss him, it hits me all over again — the intensity, the gratitude, the stupid, relentless love I have for this man. It makes everything before him feel like background noise. Like prelude.

Still panting, not sure if it's a thought or whispered into our kiss, "This is definitely the highest I've ever been"

He finds my eyes, tug a stray strand behind my eyes, kiss me and I swear I hear a "Me too".

We quickly switch to both grinning like idiots, exchanging a glance that says we survived that. He pulls back, walking toward the bathroom — and I let myself fully admire the view. He's all angles and aftermath, built like a statue someone forgot to chisel modesty into.

And then I see it.

The yellow flickers.

Gold, glowing, crawling up the walls and sheets like the room's been dipped in honeylight. I blink hard. Once. Twice. But they don't go away.

He steps back out — shirtless, flushed, gloriously undone — and the flickers multiply. They shimmer up his back, curl along his shoulders, spark at the base of his neck like they've claimed him.

I don't even hesitate.

I cross the room like gravity forgot how to work, wrap my arms around his neck, and kiss him like I'm trying to anchor myself to something solid.

He kisses me back with heat and urgency, no hesitation — like the last few minutes rewired something in him. And I know, immediately, this isn't a thank-you kiss.

This is a we-just-got-started kiss.

His hands are already on my waist, pulling me flush to him like he forgot what breathing feels like without me in his arms. It's not gentle. It's not patient. It's want, raw and rewritten in a new language we both already speak.

He walks me back with that same quiet determination — the kind that says he's seconds from losing patience and not sorry about it. My spine hits the glass. Barcelona stretched out behind me like it's about to become an accessory to a crime scene.

He shifts me, palms at my hips, turning me to face the view. One hand glides up, slow and deliberate, to cup my breast. His mouth finds my neck, lips dragging heat as his body presses in behind mine — hard, hot, and all promise.

"Enjoying the view?" he murmurs.

Like he knows I was about to say something clever, his hand dips between my legs — and all I manage is a series of breathless sounds, my body stuttering from the jolt of it.

"Trying to show me," I moan, "or show me off?"

He bites gently at my neck — and that's when I feel it. Telling me exactly how ready he is for another round.

"More like show them what they can't have," he says, voice thick. "Problem?"

His words hit low and hard. His hand's even worse. My breath skips. My knees nearly buckle.

"Depends," I pant. "You gonna fuck me against this window or just flirt with the idea?"

He groans — deep and wrecked — and I feel the grin curve against my skin even before he speaks.

"Careful," he whispers, pressing in close. "You're seconds away from getting what you won't be able to walk off."

My palms are flat against the windowpane. My breath keeps fogging up the glass. Barcelona blurs beneath me — lights bleeding, heat rising — but I can't see straight, can't think straight, because all I can feel is him.

His chest is pressed to my back, lips at my neck, one hand firm on my hip, the other one living its best fucking life between my thighs.

And he moves like he's got time. Like he's memorized me. Like he's enjoying how close I'm getting while refusing to give me exactly what I want.

"Don't hold back," he murmurs, mouth grazing the shell of my ear. "I want them to hear."

My breath stutters. My eyes fall shut.

"Fuck you," I gasp.

His chuckle is low, slow, dark enough to crawl under my skin. "Say that again when you're begging me to push you over the edge."

"I don't beg." I breathe,

He hums like he likes the sound of that. And then he drags his fingers over me just right — just enough — before pulling back again, barely there. I bite down a sound I didn't mean to make.

"You were saying?" he teases, voice like smoke.

My hands curl against the glass. "Not gonna happen."

He kisses my shoulder, then just behind my ear. "We'll see."

And then he starts again. Soft, slow strokes between my legs. Almost gentle — if it weren't for how devastatingly precise they are. He's not teasing. He's unraveling me. Intentionally. Expertly. Like he's trying to make me earn it.

I try to stay silent. Try not to rock my hips. Try not to moan. But everything inside me is tight, coiled, so close I could cry.

"You're quiet now," he whispers. "Should I stop?"

"If you stop," I grit, "you're sleeping on the floor."

He laughs — cocky, breathless — and slips lower with his hand, pressure just right. My head falls back to his shoulder with a sound that definitely isn't begging, but wants to be.

"Say it," he murmurs. "Say you want it."

"I do," I breathe.

"But you won't beg."

I swallow. "Not a chance."

He changes the angle of his hand — just slightly — and my knees almost buckle.

I whimper, try to twist away, but he catches my hips and holds me still. Pushes me into the tension.

"Not even a little bit?" he says, voice rich with effort. "You're close. I can feel it. You just have to ask."

I grit my teeth. Shake my head.

"Stubborn," he says, dragging his lips down my neck. "I'm into it."

"Good," I rasp. "Because you're not breaking me."

He hums. "Yet."

He pulls back again. Just enough to make my body scream in protest. My hips jerk against him, searching for friction. He doesn't move. His hands stay steady.

And I crack. A little.

"Please," I whisper, barely audible.

He leans into me. "Not good enough."

I groan, forehead thudding against the glass.

His breath is hot on my neck. "Say it like you mean it."

I shake my head again. One last surge of pride.

Then his fingers slide lower — firmer, faster — and the last of my control disintegrates.

"Fuck," I gasp. "Please, August!""

He doesn't make me wait.

The climax shatters through me, sudden and violent, drawn out by the way he knows when to push and when to let go. My body arches against the glass. My vision blurs. I cry out, shameless and spent.

He holds me upright with a hand to my stomach, the other stroking gentle circles to guide me down from the high. My body shakes. My breath stutters. My knees forget how to function.

And just as I start to catch it — the air, the moment, the reality — I laugh.

Wrecked, breathless, smug.

"That's all you got?"

I hear him groan—frustrated, wrecked—and then the rip of foil cuts through the haze between us.

I'm still catching my breath, high off the windowsill chaos, when I plant my palms on the glass again, deliberately arching my back. I know what I look like right now—legs shaking, skin flushed, fog clouding the pane like a signature. But I still want more. From him. With him. Another round isn't a maybe—it's inevitable.

He lets out a sharp exhale from behind me. That perfect, strangled sound tells me everything: he sees me, just like this, and it's already pushing him past where he thought his control would hold.

"You ready to beg again?" he rasps, voice rough with effort.

"You really think you can make me?" I throw it over my shoulder, smug, still breathless, still high from the last round—but not done. Nowhere near done.

That gets him.

His grip tightens on my hips. His rhythm kicks in, greedy and sure—like I just flipped a switch. And I let him go for it. Let him find his pace, throw all his tension into the heat between us. Let him believe he's in control.

Then I pull away.

Once. Twice.

He growls, a sound that's half-laughter, half-threat. His chest brushes my back again as he leans in to murmur, breath hot against my ear.

"Frederika—"

But I'm already gone, slipping from his hold, spinning to face him with a smirk. And before he can recover, I grab him by the neck and drag him down into a kiss. Not soft. Not sweet. A challenge, all teeth and heat and no apology.

He groans into it. Like he's forgotten how to breathe without me.

His hands fall to my hips, tapping once, twice—silent signal. I don't hesitate. My legs wrap around him like instinct, my arms locking behind his neck, and every part of me presses closer. Needy. Unapologetic.

But then—he shifts.

I let out a whimpering protest when he tries to unwrap my legs, but he doesn't stop. We fall back onto the bed like a wave broke beneath us, and somehow, I end up on top. Hair wild, heart pounding, skin buzzing like it's been rewired.

I sit up slowly, straddling him, trying to steady my breath. His eyes catch mine, and I know exactly what he's about to say—because he's wearing that look. The one he wore in the museum, the one that said, You're mine. Whether you know it yet or not.

And God help me, I'm wearing the exact same one back.

He reaches for me again, mouth already parted, but I stop him. Both hands pressed flat to his chest.

He stills beneath me. His hands pause at my waist, waiting. Testing.

I shift, slow and precise. Not enough to give him what he wants—just enough to remind him what I can do.

His moan is instant. Guttural. Honest.

When he opens his eyes again, I see it—hunger and hesitation fighting in real-time. His gaze drags over me like he's trying to memorize everything. Then he bites his lower lip and loses the battle completely.

That expression—it's all lust and longing, but also something that feels dangerously close to reverence.

And I make it worse.

I move again. Just enough pressure to wreck him. Not enough to break either of us.

He groans, head tipping back. One hand clenches the sheets. The other grips my thigh like a lifeline.

I catch that moan with a grin, leaning over to kiss the side of his neck. My lips hover, refusing to meet his. My hips roll with intentional cruelty—up, down, nothing steady—just friction, just enough to leave him wrecked.

He bucks his hips up, craving more. I pull back. Again.

"You're really gonna make me work for this?" he growls.

I hum against his throat. "What's wrong, loverboy? Forgot how to take control?"

His laugh is jagged, breathless. "You're impossible."

"You're welcome."

I grab his hand, guide it to my breast. Let him feel how fast my heart is racing. Let him see what he's doing to me—but not give him everything. Not yet.

He tries to close the gap again, and I hold him off, still riding the tension between us like a tightrope. His frustration only makes it better.

He groans. Loud. Desperate. His eyes flutter shut.

"What's that?" I tease, breath hot against his jaw. "You got something to say?"

No answer. Just another wrecked sound from deep in his chest, like he's unraveling with every second I don't give in.

"Forgot how to use words already?" I whisper, biting his earlobe gently. "Tragic."

He opens his eyes—barely. Looks at me like I might kill him and he wouldn't even mind.

"You really trying to end me?"

I roll my hips again, slow and precise. "You're saying this isn't how you wanna go?"

He groans—loud, pained, filthy. "Fuck, Frederika—just—"

I hover over his mouth, lips just shy of touching. My hands still pressing him down.

"One word," I whisper. "Say it, and I'll let you do whatever the fuck you want."

He closes his eyes, as if in prayer. "Kill me now."

"Wrong word," I sing. "Try again."

His grip tightens. His body arches beneath me, the tension in him volcanic now.

"Please," he grits out, like it costs him everything.

Only then do I give him what he's earned.

His eyes stay locked on me, tracking every movement like they might be his last. Every moan I make earns one back—raw, echoing, like we're caught in the same wavelength and neither of us can stop.

My hands slide to his chest, steadying myself, and the second my hips roll, his head falls back and he lets loose a string of curse words I'm pretty sure weren't in the dictionary last I checked.

I take my time. Slow, deliberate. Exploring every growl, every twitch, every filthy, reverent sound he makes. He responds to everything—every shift, every tease—like he's never been touched this way before. Like I'm a revelation.

He catches on fast.

Of course he does.

His hands join the game, not to rush me—but to challenge me. Pushing just enough to make it harder to keep my pace. Teasing, daring, driving me to finish first.

It's infuriating. It's perfect.

It's the best fucking game I've ever played.

We spiral together, testing every edge of control we both have. The pace quickens, the air thickens. Our breathing turns ragged—moans, panting, curses traded like currency.

And then—God—it's too much.

The way he looks at me. The way he moves. The way he feels.

I fall apart in real time, no warning. I lose. And I lose beautifully.

He pulls me down with him, mouth catching mine, swallowing the sounds I don't mean to make. His hands hold me there, like he needs to feel my breath, my heart, everything. And I feel him let go—hard and wrecked, growling into the kiss like he can't contain it.

It's dizzying.

It's everything.

My body's buzzing. Tingling. Sore in all the right places. I collapse beside him, needing space just to breathe again. To remember who I am.

We lie there, side by side, sweat cooling between us, chests rising like we just survived something. Maybe we did.

Still panting, I roll my head toward him and say, "I'd have jumped to your side a lot sooner if I knew this was how penguins fucked."

He turns his head, breath still uneven, and actually laughs—short, winded, glorious.

"That's really where your mind goes right now?"

I shrug, grinning. "You haven't seen anything yet. But for the record... that was not penguin-esque."

He props himself up on one elbow and leans in, brushing soft kisses down my neck, warm and slow and maddeningly affectionate.

"I never said I was a penguin," he murmurs, then bites—just gently—at the curve of my shoulder.

I shiver. "Right. This? This has wolf written all over it."

His kisses trail up toward my ear. "So... what if I am?" he whispers. "Am I allowed in your wolf pack?"

His voice vibrates in my chest.

And just like that, it's not just heat anymore.

It's something else. Something softer. Truer. The kind of thing you feel in your ribs before you let it in your heart.

I pull him in for another kiss—deep and certain.

Then, against his lips, I whisper, "You're not allowed to leave."