He kissed me again, this time slower, deeper, as if we had all the time in the world. His fingers slipped into my hair, threading through it, tugging just slightly like he needed proof I was solid. Real.
I let my hands roam, up his back, beneath the hem of his shirt, where his skin was warm and soft and entirely Reed. Every shift of his body against mine pulled a sound from the back of my throat, quiet, involuntary. Desperate, but not rushed. This wasn't hunger. This was gravity.
He tilted his head, deepening the kiss further, his tongue brushing mine—confident, familiar, like he was tasting something he'd missed. His hips rolled just faintly, a slow drag that made me tighten my grip on his waist.
"God," I murmured into his mouth, "you're dangerous like this."
He smiled against my lips, that soft smugness bleeding through.
"You say that like it's a warning," he breathed, voice raspy now. "But I know you like it."
He was right. I did. Too much.
I kissed him again, this time more possessive, my hands sliding up his sides, then down, gripping his thighs as he rocked gently in my lap. His breath hitched when I pulled him closer, and I drank in that sound like it was oxygen.
His lips moved to my jaw, my neckslow, teasing, like he was memorizing me in sections. I tilted my head to give him more, exhaling sharply as his teeth grazed skin.
"Reed…" It came out rough, reverent.
"Mhm?" he hummed against my throat.
"You're going to undo me."
He leaned back just enough to look at me, flushed and glowing with low light from the kitchen window.
"That's the idea."
And then he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion and tossed it somewhere over my shoulder. His chest was lit in gold and shadow, a contrast of softness and sharp edges. He watched me watching him, and for once, he didn't hide from it.
I kissed him again—open, claiming. My hands explored like they'd earned the right to worship. I felt his heart pounding under my palm, matching mine, and it was dizzying.
His hands were on the buttons of my shirt now, undoing them slowly, one by one, brushing knuckles against my chest with infuriating tenderness. He was enjoying this—watching me unravel.
"Still terrified?" he whispered.
"Out of my fucking mind."
He leaned forward, lips barely brushing mine.
"Then hold on."
And I did.
As he pressed me back into the chair, as our bodies aligned, as his mouth found mine again—more demanding now, hungrier but still careful.
Because even in the escalation, even in the heat and tension and the way his fingers slid over my skin like he'd always known the map—there was something slow about it. Something deliberate.
We weren't rushing.
We were writing this.
In touches. In gasps. In the unspoken promise that whatever this was, it wasn't going to burn out in the dark.
It was going to stay.
His breath caught when I shifted beneath him, sliding my arms under his thighs and back in one fluid motion.
"Wait—are you—"
"Yes," I said against his mouth.
I lifted him effortlessly, and he instinctively wrapped his arms around my shoulders, legs around my waist like muscle memory. His laughter hitched between kisses, warm and a little incredulous, like he hadn't expected this part of me.
"You don't look that strong," he murmured against my jaw, lips brushing the corner of my mouth as I walked us down the hall.
"I'm full of surprises," I whispered, letting my teeth scrape lightly along his bottom lip, "Haven't you learned that by now?"
His reply dissolved into another kiss, deeper this time, more giving. His fingers tangled in my hair as I reached the bedroom, kicking the door open with a little more force than intended. It hit the wall with a quiet thud, but we didn't break rhythm.
I laid him down carefully, slowly, like he was something expensive I didn't trust the world to hold right.
Even then, I didn't stop kissing him.
He pulled me down with him, hands still exploring—trailing along the edge of my ribs, down my spine, leaving a trail of shivers I couldn't hide if I tried.
The bed creaked beneath us, the only witness to this slow, dizzying undoing. The city outside was still. The curtains swayed with the breeze, and light shifted against his bare skin, painting him in gold and shadow.
I kissed him like I couldn't stop. Like I didn't want to.
His hands moved to my chest, palms flat, grounding me. I looked down at him—eyes wide, lips parted, hair a halo of wild softness against the sheets.
"Lucien," he said, voice low and anchoring, "I'm still here."
As if I needed reminding.
As if I hadn't built entire nights out of that fact alone.
I leaned in again, brushing his temple with my lips.
"Good."
Because I wasn't sure who I'd be if he wasn't.
And right now, I didn't want to find out.
His lips dragged along my jaw, slow and searching, while his hands guided mine—pulling me closer, urging without words. He arched slightly beneath me, hips meeting mine in a rhythm we hadn't discussed but somehow understood. Every shift of his body said don't stop.
And I didn't.
I kissed him again—deeper, slower, more demanding. My tongue teased his, tasted him, memorized him. My hands slid over his chest, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just under his ribs. He shivered, breath catching against my lips.
"Touch me," he whispered, and it wasn't a plea. It was a command wrapped in trust.
I obeyed.
I let my hands travel—down his sides, along his hips, fingertips trailing just under the waistband of his boxers. His skin was warm and electric, goosebumps chasing my touch.
His hands slipped beneath my shirt, nails grazing lightly along my spine as he pulled the fabric upward and over my head. I didn't break the kiss, just let it fall somewhere behind us, forgotten.
His body moved against mine with growing urgency. Every sigh, every gasp, every roll of his hips drove me further from composure. And when I finally reached between us and cupped him through the fabric, he moaned—quiet, bitten back, beautiful.
He grabbed my wrist, eyes fluttering open, heavy-lidded and wanting.
"Don't be careful."
That shattered the last of my restraint.
I kissed down his throat, down his chest, biting lightly at the edge of his collarbone before continuing lower. He arched again, head tilting back into the pillow, fingers threading into my hair as I reached the edge of his boxers and tugged them down, slow, deliberate.
When I wrapped my hand around him fully, his breath hitched—and then he cursed under it, soft and shaky.
I stroked him slowly, watching every reaction—every twitch of his thigh, every flicker of muscle, the way his mouth parted when he was too far gone to hide anything.
"Lucien—" his voice cracked, sharp with pleasure.
I leaned up, kissed him again, swallowing the sound as I moved my hand faster, rhythm syncing with his body. His hips lifted into my palm, desperate for more, for friction, for me.
He broke the kiss, breath stuttering. His hands gripped my waist now, pulling me closer, eyes wild with heat and something softer underneath—something almost reverent.
I didn't stop until he was close—until his breath was shallow, teeth clenched, thighs trembling. I kissed him through it, touched him through it, gave him everything I hadn't let myself want.
And when he came—shaking, gasping my name like it was the only word he remembered—I held him.
Close. Steady. Real.
I kissed his shoulder as he caught his breath, as his hand slid weakly across my back.
"You're unbelievable," he muttered, chest still rising and falling.
"You're mine," I said, without thinking.
And for once, he didn't joke it away.
His chest was still heaving, flushed and warm beneath my touch. He looked at me like I had just taken him apart and handed every broken piece back to him—unashamed, whole.
I pressed a kiss to his temple, slow and lingering.
He turned his face toward mine, kissed me back, then shifted—flipping us without warning.
I let him.
He straddled my hips now, and the look in his eyes had changed—still soft, still Reed, but heavier with intent. With want. With something darker and more deliberate curling at the corners of his smile.
His hands slid up my stomach, grazing lightly, coaxing the rest of me out of hiding. When they reached the waistband of my pants, he paused—glanced up at me.
I nodded once.
And he moved.
Slowly, he undid the button, then the zipper, knuckles brushing my skin like a whisper. I lifted my hips slightly, and he slid the fabric down—along with everything else—until I was bare beneath him.
The air hit me first. Then his gaze.
He looked at me like I was something beautiful and dangerous. Something he'd wanted for a long time but refused to rush.
His hands roamed. His mouth followed.
He kissed my chest first, then down—open-mouthed, wet, reverent. His lips mapped a trail along my stomach, his tongue teasing where his breath followed. My hand moved instinctively to his hair, fingers tightening as he reached lower, pausing just above where I was already hard and aching for him.
He looked up at me then, pupils blown wide, mouth flushed.
"Tell me if you want me to stop."
I exhaled sharply. "Don't you dare."
His smile was quick, wicked. And then he took me into his mouth—slowly, inch by inch.
The heat of it, the pressure, the way he moved with careful precision—it was enough to make my mind fracture. My head fell back against the pillow, and a broken sound escaped me before I could catch it.
He was good. Too good.
He sucked gently, then deeper, tongue curling just right, fingers stroking what he couldn't take fully. My hips bucked—he pressed his hand to my stomach, firm, grounding.
"Fuck, Reed," I hissed.
He hummed around me—deliberately. I felt the vibration in my spine.
It wasn't just pleasure—it was power. It was him showing me that he knew exactly how to take control when I gave it to him. That he knew how to make me fall apart, even if I wore silence like armor.
I was close—too close. I tugged gently at his hair, gasping, eyes squeezed shut.
"I'm gonna—"
He didn't pull away.
He looked up at me while he swallowed every last bit of me, slow and sure, never breaking eye contact.
I stared at him, stunned, wrecked, undone.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned forward again—kissed me like he hadn't just ruined me.
And I kissed him back like I'd never wanted anything more.
And I wasn't done with him.
Not even close.
My hands roamed his body, relearning every line, every tremor of muscle under skin. I pulled him close, feeling the weight of him, the heat, the quiet ache in my chest that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with him.
He shifted over me, and I slid my hands down his back, gripping his thighs as he moved to straddle me again, but this time—it was different.
This time, we both knew where we were going.
Reed kissed down my neck, biting lightly at the hollow of my throat before pulling back, flushed and panting slightly, hair falling into his eyes.
"Condom?" I asked, voice husky.
He nodded, reached for the drawer beside the bed without breaking contact. He opened it with steady fingers, then leaned down again, pressing our foreheads together.
"Still terrified?"
"Terrified of how much I want this," I breathed.
He kissed me again.
I helped him—guided him as he slid the condom on me, his hands sure, movements slow and careful. Every second stretched like elastic. Like the moment before something sacred begins.
When he finally sank down onto me—slow, controlled, his breath catching in his throat—my hands flew to his hips, gripping tight, not to control, but to hold on. Because it felt like falling.
"Jesus, Reed—"
He moved in increments, taking his time, exhaling through his nose, letting his body adjust as he lowered onto me fully. My head fell back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, teeth clenched as I felt the full depth of him around me.
He stilled for a moment, both of us shaking slightly, breaths mingling in the space between our mouths.
And then—he rolled his hips.
Slowly. Deliberately.
And I broke.
The rhythm started soft, unhurried. He moved above me like he had all the time in the world to wreck me, riding me with a smooth, careful intensity that made my hands shake. He held my shoulders for balance, his nails digging in when I thrust up into him and made him gasp.
I met him stroke for stroke, our bodies locked in rhythm, breath coming hard and fast, sweat slicking between us. Every sound from him—every broken moan, every sharp inhale—made me want to give him more.
"You feel—" he started, but the sentence broke on a whimper when I hit just right.
He leaned down to kiss me, messy and deep, our mouths sliding against each other as we moved faster. More frantic now. More need.
I could feel him tightening around me, his body trembling in my arms, and I whispered against his mouth—
"Come for me again."
And he did.
His hands were gripping my waist now, pulling me closer, grounding himself as his body trembled through release. His head tilted back, mouth parted, lashes clinging together from the heat of it all—and I couldn't look away. Not even for a second. Shaking, gasping my name, collapsing into my chest as he spilled between us, his whole body curling into mine. I held him through it, kissed the side of his face.
I didn't last much longer.
The second his body clenched around me again, I followed—deep inside him, clinging to him like salvation, like if I let go the world would disappear.
His head tilted back, mouth parted, lashes clinging together from the heat of it all—and I couldn't look away. Not even for a second.
And in that second, I knew.
If someone else ever touched him like this—kissed him with this kind of ache, coaxed sounds from his throat the way I had, held him like he might shatter—I would burn the whole world down.
It wasn't jealousy. It wasn't fear. It was instinct—something older, deeper, sharper than anything I'd ever felt. Like some part of me, usually quiet, usually chained, had risen to the surface and looked at this man in my arms and decided: mine.
Reed wasn't just warmth or wit or the sharp edge of sarcasm I admired too much.
He was mine in ways I didn't yet have the language for.
And the idea of anyone else claiming even a sliver of what he gave me so freely—his trust, his softness, his noise—felt unbearable. Unthinkable.
I held him tighter, pulled him down, kissed the side of his face like he was a prayer.
When he collapsed against me, I didn't loosen my grip. I wrapped both arms around him fully, possessively, as if some part of the world might still be trying to take him and I needed to remind it—no.
He was catching his breath, chest rising and falling fast against mine. His hand slid along my ribs, slow and lazy.
We stayed like that.
Breathless. Sweating. Shaking. Pressed together like something we could never name was stitching itself between us.
He didn't move, didn't speak—just rested his head against my shoulder, his chest rising and falling in sync with mine.
And I, for once, didn't say a word.
Because there was nothing to say that could match the weight of what we'd just shared.
Only this: He was mine.
In every quiet, gasping, aching way.
The silence was warm now.
Heavy with breath and skin and sweat. My chest still rose too fast. His cheek was pressed to my shoulder, his fingers lazily tracing lines across my ribs as if he didn't want the moment to end—but didn't mind if it repeated.
I tilted my head, kissed the top of his head.
He hummed.
And then, with what little breath I had left, I murmured:
"You think we can go again?"
He paused.
Then lifted his head slowly, grinning—hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded but gleaming.
"Hell yeah we can," he said, already shifting off my lap. "Let me grab another condom."
And as he padded toward the drawer, naked and unbothered, humming to himself with that cocky strut of his, I leaned back into the pillows—
—and smiled like a man who'd just found religion.
Or worse—
love.