He stayed still. The weight of him pressed her into the mattress, his breath ragged against her neck, and she felt everything—every inch of him inside her, the stretch that bordered on too much, the way her body kept clenching around him like it couldn't decide if it wanted to pull him deeper or push him out.
"Okay?" His voice cracked on the word.
She nodded against his shoulder. Then remembered he couldn't see her face. "Yeah. Just—give me a second."
He gave her more than that. He waited, his forehead resting against hers, his hips absolutely still even though she could feel him trembling—the effort of holding himself back, of letting her take what she needed instead of taking what he wanted. She'd never had anyone wait for her like this. Maya never had. Maya took what she wanted and assumed Sofia wanted it too, and mostly she had been right, but this—this was different. This was him asking with his body, over and over, is this okay, is this enough, are you still here.
She lifted her hand from his shoulder and touched his face. His jaw was tight, stubble rough against her fingertips. "You can move," she whispered. "I want you to."
He pulled out slow—agonizingly slow—and she felt every millimeter of the withdrawal, the friction, the empty space he left behind. Then he pushed back in, just as slow, and her breath caught at the fullness of it, the way he filled her completely before pulling back again.
"Like that?"
"God—" Her voice broke. "Yes."
He found a rhythm. Shallow at first, testing, each thrust a question she answered with her hips lifting to meet him. Her nails raked down his back and he groaned, the sound low and desperate against her temple, his pace quickening without permission.
"Tell me if—"
"Don't stop." She heard herself say it, didn't recognize her own voice. "Please don't stop."
He didn't. He drove into her harder, faster, the headboard starting to knock against the wall, and she wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him deeper. The angle changed and something inside her shifted—a spark that caught and spread, heat pooling low in her belly, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
"Fuck, Sofia—" His voice was wrecked. "You feel—I can't—"
"More." She didn't know what she was asking for. More of this, more of him, more of the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room. "Please."
He shifted, one hand sliding beneath her lower back to tilt her hips up, and the new angle drove him deeper—so deep she felt it in her throat, a gasp that turned into a moan she couldn't stop. His mouth found hers, sloppy and desperate, and she bit his lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
"Shit—" He pulled back, surprise flickering across his face, and then he laughed—a breathless, disbelieving sound. "You bit me."
"Sorry." She wasn't sorry.
"Don't be." He kissed her again, harder, his tongue sliding against hers, and she felt him smile against her mouth. "Do it again."
She did. And he groaned into her, his hips stuttering, his rhythm falling apart as he buried his face in her neck. "I'm close," he said, the words muffled against her skin. "I don't want to—not yet—"
"It's okay." She threaded her fingers through his hair, felt the sweat at his temples. "It's okay."
"But I want—" He pulled back to look at her, his pale eyes dark in the moonlight. "I want to make you come first."
The words hit her somewhere unexpected—somewhere soft and unprotected. No one had ever said that to her. Maya came first, always, and Sofia finished herself afterward, alone in the dark, pretending she didn't mind.
"You already are," she said, and meant it.
He shook his head. Moved his hand between them, his thumb finding the place where their bodies met, pressing against her in small, tight circles. She gasped, her hips bucking against his touch, and he watched her face—watched her fall apart under his hand.
"There?"
She couldn't answer. Could only nod, her teeth sinking into her lower lip, her vision going blurry at the edges. He kept thrusting, kept pressing, kept watching her with that focused, hungry expression, and she felt it building—a pressure that coiled tighter and tighter until she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but hold onto him and let go.
The orgasm hit her like a wave, pulling her under, and she heard herself cry out—his name, a sob, something that might have been please please please. Her body clenched around him, pulling him deeper, and he groaned her name against her throat, his hips slamming into hers once, twice, three times before he stilled, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his face buried in her neck, his heart hammering against her ribs. She could feel him inside her still, softening, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him there.
"Holy shit," he said finally.
She laughed—a wet, shaky sound. "Yeah."
He lifted his head, and in the moonlight she could see his face—flushed, dazed, almost reverent. "Are you okay?"
"I'm perfect." She meant it. "Are you?"
He laughed, the sound catching in his throat. "I think I died. I think I'm dead and this is heaven."
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "That's so cheesy."
"I don't care." He kissed her forehead, her nose, the corner of her mouth. "I'd say it again. I'll say it every day if you want."
Every day. The words settled somewhere in her chest, warm and terrifying. They hadn't talked about what this meant. They hadn't talked about anything, really—just fallen into each other like it was the only possible outcome.
He pulled out slowly, carefully, and she winced at the loss. He noticed—of course he noticed—and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Stay here. I'll get something."
He disappeared into the bathroom, and she listened to the water run, watched the moonlight shift across the ceiling. Her body ached in ways she'd never felt before—a deep, satisfied soreness that made her want to curl up and never move.
He came back with a washcloth, warm and damp, and cleaned her with a tenderness that made her chest tight. Then he climbed back into bed, pulled her against his chest, and covered them both with the rumpled sheet.
"Hey." His voice was soft against her hair. "Sofia."
"Mm?"
"I'm not—" He paused, his hand tracing slow circles on her back. "I'm not good at saying things. But I want you to know. This isn't—I'm not going anywhere."
She turned in his arms to face him. His eyes were pale and serious, and she saw the fear there—the same fear she felt, the terror of wanting something this much.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She kissed him, soft and slow, tasting herself on his lips. "I'm not going anywhere either."
He exhaled—a breath he'd been holding since she sat down next to him in math class, maybe—and pulled her closer. His hand found hers under the sheet, their fingers lacing together, and she felt the future opening in front of them, vast and uncertain and full of light.
Outside, the moon had begun its slow descent toward dawn. Inside, his heart beat steady against her cheek, and she let herself believe that this—this was worth staying for.