The lamp glow caught the tremor first—the fine, continuous shake running through her thighs where she still straddled him. Manika felt it like a wire pulled tight inside her, humming, and she was still drawing the breath to say something, anything, when Liez's hands closed around her hips and she was moving.

The world turned. The duvet rushed past her shoulder, the lamp glow swung across the ceiling, and then her back hit the mattress with a soft bounce and she was staring up at him, breathless, her hair fanned out beneath her on the rumpled sheets.

His grey eyes had gone dark. Not the mischief she knew, not the lazy charm he wore like a second skin—something underneath, something that had been waiting. He dragged her down the bed, hands locked on her hips, pulling her to the edge until her ass cleared the mattress and her spine arched and she felt suddenly, thrillingly exposed.

"Liez—"

His mouth was on her breast before she finished his name.

The heat of it stole the word. His lips closed over her nipple, tongue flat and warm, and then his teeth grazed the peak and she gasped, her hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting in the dark tousled strands. He sucked hard, drawing her in, and the pull went straight down her spine, settling hot and heavy between her legs.

She was still trembling. Still shaking from before, from the way he'd let her ride him, from the way she'd come with her hand over her mouth and her thighs squeezing his hips. And now he was on top of her, and the weight of him was different—not patient, not waiting. Hungry.

His cock slammed into her without warning.

No gentleness, no slow slide, no careful inch-by-inch. One moment she was empty and aching, the next he was buried inside her to the hilt, and the force of it punched the air out of her lungs in a sharp, broken cry. Her back bowed off the mattress. Her nails raked his shoulders.

"Fuck—"

"Don't stop." The words tore out of her, raw and shameless, her heels digging into his back. "Don't you dare stop."

He didn't slow down. He pulled out and drove back in, hard, the bed frame knocking against the wall with a dull, rhythmic thud. His mouth stayed on her breast, teeth grazing, tongue circling, and the dual assault—the suck and the thrust, the pull and the pound—had her seeing stars at the edges of her vision.

"You feel that?" he said against her skin, and then his teeth closed on her nipple and she arched so hard her shoulders came off the mattress. "How tight you are. Like you were made for it."

"Shut up," she gasped. "God, just—shut up and—"

Her legs came up on their own, wrapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. She wanted him deeper. Wanted him harder. Wanted him to keep going until she couldn't think anymore, until the only thing left in her head was the feel of him stretching her, filling her, claiming her.

"That's it," he growled against her skin, the vibration of it rolling through her. "Take it."

"I am." Her voice cracked. "I'm—Liez, I'm taking it, I'm—"

She took it. God, she took it. Her hips rose to meet his, matching his rhythm, and the wet sound of him sliding into her filled the room—slick and obscene and perfect. She could feel herself clenching around him, gripping him, and every time he pulled back she felt the loss, the emptiness, before he filled her again.

"You hear that?" He lifted his head, breathing hard, watching the place where they joined. "That's you. That's how wet you are for me."

"Don't—" She turned her face into the pillow, cheeks burning.

"Don't what?" He caught her chin, turned her back to him, and his thumb pressed against her lower lip. "Look at me while I fuck you."

His hand slid up her stomach, fingers splaying over her ribs, and then his palm closed around her throat.

Not squeezing. Just there. Just a warm, heavy weight that made her breath catch and her eyes flutter. He looked down at her, grey eyes dark and intent, and she felt the shift in the air between them—the power, the control, the way he was watching her like she was something he'd been waiting to take apart.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "That's it. Right there."

He thrust harder. Deeper. The angle changed, and suddenly he was hitting a spot inside her that made her see white, her mouth falling open in a silent cry.

"Please," she heard herself gasp. "Please—"

"Please what?" His voice was low, rough, barely a growl. "Tell me."

"Harder." It came out of her like a confession. "Please, harder, please—"

She couldn't. She couldn't form words, couldn't think, could only feel the relentless rhythm of him driving into her, the weight of his hand on her throat, the ache building low in her belly like a coil winding tighter and tighter.

"Daddy," she heard herself gasp, and the word was out before she could stop it, falling from her lips like a secret she hadn't known she was keeping. "Daddy, please—"

He went still for half a second. Then his grip on her throat tightened, just a fraction, and a low, dark growl rolled out of him.

"Say it again."

Her cheeks burned. Her thighs shook. But the word was already there, waiting on her tongue, and she was too far gone to be shy.

"Daddy."

"Again."

"Daddy." Her voice broke on it, and she felt him swell inside her, felt the pulse of it, and something in her chest went loose and molten. "Daddy, please—"

He snapped his hips forward, hard, and she cried out, her head thrown back, her fingers clawing at the sheets. "Good girl." His voice was wrecked, raw. "Such a good girl."

"Am I?" The question came out small, and she hated how much she meant it.

"Best I've ever had." He said it like a fact, like something he'd checked. "And I've been thinking about this since the day you moved in."

The praise undid her. She felt herself tighten around him, felt the coil in her belly draw taut, and he felt it too—she saw it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his rhythm faltered for just a breath before he drove into her again, harder, faster.

"You're going to come for me," he said, and it wasn't a question. "You're going to come on my cock, and I'm going to feel every bit of it."

"I can't—" She was already there. Already climbing, already trembling on the edge. "I can't, it's too—"

"You can." His hand left her throat, sliding down her body, fingers finding her clit and pressing in tight circles that made her see stars. "You've been holding it since I put you on this bed. Let it go."

"Liez—"

"Say my name." He was breathing hard, his forehead dropping to hers, his eyes locked on her. "Say it when you come."

"Liez," she sobbed, and it wasn't his name so much as a surrender. "Liez, Liez, Liez—"

She couldn't hold on. The coil snapped, and she came with a broken cry, her body arching off the bed, her cunt clenching around him in wave after wave. She heard herself say his name—half sob, half prayer—and she felt him shudder above her, felt his rhythm stutter and break.

"Fuck," he groaned, and then he was coming.

"Inside," she heard herself say, and she didn't know where it came from. "Don't pull out, don't—"

Hot. Thick. Endless.

She felt the first flood of it inside her, a rush of heat that seemed to go on and on, filling her, overflowing her, spilling out of her cunt onto the sheets beneath them in a warm, slick flood. He kept thrusting, shallow and desperate, riding out the wave, and every pulse of him sent another gush of cum spilling out of her, soaking the duvet, running down her thighs.

"Jesus," he breathed. "Jesus, look at you."

She lay there, gasping, her body still clenching around him, and she felt the exact moment his rhythm broke.

He pulled out.

"Wait—"

The emptiness was sudden, shocking, and she felt the loss of him like a physical ache—and then the first rope of cum hit her stomach, hot and thick, and she gasped.

"There," he said, and his voice had gone strange, low and intent. "There you go. Take it."

He was still coming. Still shooting. Rope after rope painted her skin, her stomach, her breasts, until she was glistening beneath him, covered in him, marked by him. The last few pulses landed lower, across her hip, and then he slumped forward, one hand braced on the mattress beside her head, his breath ragged and hot against her cheek.

The room was quiet except for their breathing.

"You said don't pull out," he murmured, and there was a question buried in it.

"I know." She didn't open her eyes. "I know what I said."

Manika lay there, sticky and trembling, his cum cooling on her skin, and she could feel the wet sheets beneath her, the evidence of how much he'd given her. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and he was watching her with those dark grey eyes—not the mischief, not the charm. Something raw. Something real.

His thumb came up and traced the line of her jaw, slow, almost reverent.

"You're not going anywhere," he said. Not a question either.

She held her breath under that touch, the pad of his thumb dragging across her skin like he was memorizing the shape of her. The lamp glow caught the edge of his jaw, the hollow of his throat, the way his chest still heaved with the remnants of what they'd done. His cum was cooling on her stomach, tacky between her breasts, and she could feel the wet spread of the sheets beneath her hip, but she didn't move. Didn't want to break whatever this was.

"You're staring," she whispered, and her voice came out rougher than she expected, scraped raw by everything she'd just said aloud.

"You're worth staring at." His thumb traced down to the corner of her mouth, then away. "That was—" He stopped, and for once the charm wasn't there to catch the fall. He just looked at her, grey eyes dark and unguarded, and she saw the boy beneath the bravado, the one who'd never had to work for anything and didn't know what to do with something he actually wanted.

"That was what?" She reached up and touched his face, her fingers finding the sharp line of his cheekbone.

"That was everything," he said. "That was every night I've lain in this bed thinking about you, and it was better than I imagined. And I imagined a lot."

He caught her wrist, turned his head, and pressed his mouth to her palm. The kiss was soft, almost reverent, and it undid something in her chest that the rough fucking hadn't touched.

"You called me Daddy," he said against her skin.

"I know."

"I liked it."

"I know that too."

The confession hung in the air between them, raw and unexpected. She'd come to his room planning to use him, to scratch an itch she'd been nursing for months, to take what she wanted and leave before the morning light could make it awkward. She hadn't planned on this—the quiet after, the way he looked at her like she was something more than a warm body in his bed.

"Don't make it weird," she said, and her voice caught halfway through.

"Too late." He was almost smiling. Almost.

She pulled his face down and kissed him, slow and deliberate, tasting herself on his lips, tasting the salt of his skin and the faint sweetness of the vanilla that clung to his sheets. He groaned into her mouth, one hand sliding into her hair, and she felt the last of the tension drain out of her body, the trembling finally easing into something soft and heavy.

When she broke the kiss, she was smiling. She could feel it on her own lips, strange and unfamiliar, and she saw the answering curve at the corner of his mouth before he ducked his head and pressed his forehead to hers.

"Stay," he said, and it wasn't a question. "Just for a while. Just until the sheets dry."

She laughed, a soft breath of sound that stirred the hair at his temple. "The sheets are ruined."

"Worth it." His hand traced down her side, over the curve of her hip, and she felt the shiver that ran through her at the touch. "I'll wash them tomorrow. Or buy new ones. Whatever it takes to keep you here a little longer."

She should say no. Should slip out of bed and gather her clothes and walk back to her own room before the others woke up and the questions started. But his hand was warm on her hip, and his weight was a comfort on top of her, and the lamp glow painted everything in shades of gold and shadow. She turned her head, pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth.

"Okay," she said. "Just for a while."

He kissed her back, slow and warm, and she felt the smile against her lips, the one he was trying to hide. She slid her hand up the back of his neck, into his hair, and pulled him closer, and the kiss deepened until she couldn't tell where her breath ended and his began.

When he finally broke away, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against hers, his breath warm on her mouth, and she felt the shift in his body before she understood it—the soft, heavy press of him settling against her thigh, stirring, thickening.

"Liez," she murmured, and it came out as a question she hadn't meant to ask.

"I know." His voice was low, almost apologetic. "I know we just—" He stopped, his thumb tracing the line of her hip. "I can't help it. You're still here. You're still warm."

She should laugh it off. Should turn over, pull the sheet up, let the moment end cleanly the way she'd planned. But she didn't. She lay there, feeling him harden against her thigh, and the heat of it curled low in her belly, familiar now, insistent.

"I didn't say to move it," she said quietly.

He went still. His grey eyes searched hers in the lamplight, and she saw the question there, the careful retreat of the charm, leaving something raw and uncertain underneath.

"Are you sure?"

Instead of answering, she reached down between them and closed her fingers around him. He was slick with her, still warm from what they'd done, and he pulsed against her palm, heavy and alive. She guided him to her entrance, felt the blunt pressure of him against her, and held his gaze as she pushed her hips up to meet him.

He slid inside her in one slow, endless push, and they both let out a breath that had been waiting.

"God," he breathed, his forehead dropping to hers. "God, you feel—"

She felt it too. The fullness of him, the way her body opened to take him, the soft, wet give of flesh meeting flesh. It was different this time—not the frantic, desperate pace of before, but something slower, deeper, a settling of him into her that felt almost like coming home.

He didn't move. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, and she felt his pulse through the length of him, felt the way he throbbed inside her, and the intimacy of it stole her breath.

"You're not moving," she whispered.

"No." He pressed a kiss to her temple, soft and unhurried. "I'm just—" He shifted, a small adjustment that sent a ripple of sensation through her. "I want to feel you. All of you. Just like this."

Her eyes fluttered closed. She felt the weight of him inside her, the heat of him, the way her body had already learned the shape of him and held him like something precious. She could feel her own pulse in her cunt, a slow, heavy throb that matched his, and she realized she was clenching around him, gripping him, unwilling to let him go.

"Is this okay?" he asked, and the question was so earnest, so unlike the cocky boy who'd slammed into her without warning, that it made her chest ache.

"Yes," she said, and she meant it. "This is—this is good."

He settled against her, his weight a warm, grounding pressure, and she felt him soften inside her, not losing his fullness but relaxing into it, becoming a part of her. His hand came up to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheek, and she turned her head to press her lips to his palm.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I know." She was. A fine tremor had started in her thighs again, not from arousal this time but from something else, something she couldn't name. "I don't know why."

"It's okay." His hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head. "I've got you."

She believed him. That was the terrifying thing. She lay there, filled by him, held by him, and she believed him.

He shifted, pulling her closer, and she felt him move inside her, a slow, shallow drag that made her gasp softly. He stilled immediately.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize." She wrapped her legs around his waist, hooking her ankles behind his back. "Just—stay."

"Stay," she repeated, softer this time, and the word settled between them like a promise she hadn't meant to make. His breath came out shaky against her throat, and she felt the tension in his shoulders ease by degrees, the careful restraint of his body finally giving way to something heavier, more honest.

He began to move. Not the slow, reverent stillness of before, but a deep, rolling rhythm that started in his hips and traveled through her like a current. Each push was unhurried, deliberate, dragging against the walls of her cunt in a way that made her toes curl against his back. She arched into him, her fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders, and he groaned low in his chest, his forehead dropping to the hollow of her neck.

"God, Manika." Her name came out wrecked, like he was drowning in her. "You feel—I can't—" He broke off, his hips stuttering, and she felt the words he couldn't find in the way he pulled her closer, in the desperate press of his body against hers.

She didn't need the words. She could feel everything he wasn't saying in the way he filled her, in the thick, heavy slide of his cock as he pushed deeper, seeking, finding the spot inside her that made her see white at the edges of her vision. She gasped, her nails raking down his back, and he hissed through his teeth, the sound sharp and hungry.

"There," he breathed, and he did it again, hitting that same place with a precision that felt almost cruel. "Is that—is that it?"

She couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. She could only nod, her throat tight, her eyes squeezed shut as waves of sensation rolled through her, building, cresting, threatening to pull her under. He kept going, relentless and patient, his thumb finding her clit and circling it in time with his thrusts, and she felt herself unraveling, coming apart at the seams.

"Liez," she gasped, and it came out broken, desperate, a plea she didn't know how to finish.

"I know," he said, his voice rough against her ear. "I know. Let go. I've got you."

She did. She let go, and the orgasm crashed over her like a wave, pulling her under, drowning her in sensation. Her cunt clenched around him, gripping him in rhythmic waves, and she felt him shudder above her, felt the way he fought for control and lost it. He buried his face in her shoulder and came with a broken groan, his hips pressing deep, and she felt the hot flood of him spilling inside her, filling her, more than she'd thought possible.

He collapsed against her, his weight a warm, grounding pressure, and for a long moment neither of them moved. The only sound in the room was their breathing, ragged and uneven, and the soft hum of the lamp. She could feel him still inside her, softening by degrees, and she found she didn't want him to leave. Didn't want the separation, the cool air where his body had been.

"Don't move," she whispered, and it wasn't a request.

He laughed softly, a puff of warm breath against her shoulder. "Wasn't planning to."

She felt him shift, settling his weight more comfortably, and she realized with a start that he was still inside her, still joined to her in the most intimate way possible. The fullness had faded to a pleasant ache, a reminder of what they'd done, and she found herself gripping him with her inner muscles, holding him there.

"You're doing that on purpose," he murmured, and there was a smile in his voice.

"Maybe." She pressed a kiss to his temple, the skin warm and slightly damp. "I'm not ready for this to end."

"It doesn't have to." He lifted his head, his grey eyes meeting hers in the lamplight, and she saw something there she hadn't expected—a vulnerability, a rawness that made her chest ache. "We could just—stay like this. For a while."

She should say no. Should slip out from under him, gather her clothes, retreat to her own room before the boundaries between them got any more blurred. But his weight was warm and solid on top of her, and the soft, heavy presence of him inside her felt like a secret she didn't want to give up.

"Okay," she said, and the word came out softer than she'd intended.

He settled back against her, his head finding the curve of her shoulder, and she felt his breath even out, slow and steady. She ran her fingers through his hair, the dark strands sliding between them, and she felt the tension in his body finally release, the last of it draining away like water.

"You're still shaking," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

"I know." She was. The tremor had returned, softer now, a fine vibration that ran through her like a plucked string. "I don't know how to stop."

"Don't." He pressed a kiss to her collarbone, his lips warm and slack. "I like feeling you."

She felt her eyes sting, and she blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. This wasn't supposed to feel like this. It was supposed to be simple—a need, a release, a secret she could lock away and forget. But he was still inside her, still holding her, and she didn't want to forget. Didn't want to be anywhere but here.

His breathing deepened, and she felt the shift of his body as sleep pulled him under. He was still heavy on top of her, still warm, still joined to her in that impossible, intimate way. She didn't move. Didn't dare. She lay there, feeling the slow, steady pulse of his heartbeat through his chest, feeling the way her own body had already begun to learn the shape of him.

The lamp cast its golden glow over them, painting their tangled bodies in shades of amber and shadow. She watched the rise and fall of his back, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, and she reached up to brush it away. He stirred, murmuring something in Russian she didn't understand, and settled deeper against her.

She was still full of him. She could feel it—the soft, heavy presence of his cock inside her, a reminder that he was still there, still with her, even in sleep. It should have been uncomfortable. Should have been strange. But instead it felt like an anchor, tethering her to this moment, to him.

She closed her eyes, and she let herself feel it. The weight of him. The warmth. The slow, steady rhythm of his breath against her skin. She felt her own body relax, the tension draining from her limbs, and she realized with a start that she wasn't shaking anymore.

"Stay," she whispered into the dark, and she wasn't sure if she was talking to him or to herself. "Just stay."

He didn't answer. He was already asleep, his breath a soft, even sigh against her throat. But she felt his body shift, a small adjustment that pressed him deeper inside her, and she felt the warmth of him settle into her like a promise.

She lay there, wrapped around him, filled by him, and she let herself believe, just for a moment, that this could be something more than a secret. The lamplight flickered, and she felt sleep pulling at her, gentle and insistent, and she didn't fight it. She let herself drift, held by him, held inside him, and she let the night take her.

The grey light was what woke her. Not the lamp—that had burned itself out sometime in the night, a thin thread of smoke still curling from the bulb—but the pale, soft grey of early morning seeping through the crack in the curtains. Manika blinked against it, her eyes gritty and warm, and the first thing she registered was the weight.

He was still inside her.

She felt it in the slow, heavy pulse of him against her inner walls, softened by sleep but still there, still anchoring her to him in that impossible way. His face was pressed to her shoulder, his breath warm and even against her skin, and one of his hands had curled around her waist sometime in the night, possessive even in sleep. She could feel the faint stubble on his jaw scratching her collarbone, the way his dark hair had fallen across his forehead, and she found herself reaching up to brush it back before she'd even decided to.

He stirred. Made a sound low in his throat, something Russian she didn't catch, and then his eyes opened.

Grey. The color of the morning light, soft and unguarded. He blinked at her, slow and drowsy, and then he smiled—a small, private thing, not the lazy charm she knew, not the mischief. Just him. Just Liez, waking up with her in his arms.

"Morning," he said, and his voice was rough with sleep, scraped low.

"Morning." She felt her own voice come out soft, uncertain. "Did you sleep?"

"Best sleep I've had in months." His hand tightened on her waist as if he was checking she was still there. "You're still here."

"I said I'd stay."

"People say a lot of things." He shifted, and she felt him move inside her, a slow, involuntary drag that made her breath catch. "You stayed."

She didn't know what to say to that. The truth was sitting heavy in her chest—that she hadn't planned to stay, that she'd come to his room with every intention of leaving before dawn, that the soft, warm reality of him had undone all of it. She pressed her lips to his forehead instead, and he closed his eyes under the kiss, a small sound escaping him.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Early." He didn't open his eyes. "Too early for anyone else to be up."

The words hung in the air between them, loaded with everything they weren't saying. The others. The secret. The careful performance they'd have to put on at breakfast, pretending they hadn't spent the night tangled together, pretending she didn't know the sound of his voice when he came.

She didn't want to think about that yet. She wanted to stay here, in the grey morning light, with his weight heavy on her and the slow, steady pulse of him inside her.

She shifted her hips, just a little, and felt him harden against her, a quick, involuntary response that made her breath catch.

"Manika." His voice was a warning, but a soft one. "We just—"

"I know." She moved again, a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that dragged him against her inner walls. "I know what we just did."

"I'm still—" He broke off, his jaw clenching. "I'm still inside you."

"I know." She reached up, slid her hand into his hair, pulled his face down to hers. "I don't want you anywhere else."

He kissed her. It was slow, tender, nothing like the frantic, desperate kisses of the night before. His lips moved against hers like they had all the time in the world, and she felt the soft, wet slide of his tongue against hers, the way his hand came up to cup her face, thumb stroking her cheek. She felt him thicken inside her, a slow, heavy pulse, and she let out a breath against his mouth.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured, his lips brushing hers. "Tell me, and I'll give it to you."

She thought about it. About the wild, desperate pace of last night, the way he'd slammed into her, the way she'd begged for it. She didn't want that now. Not the frantic, not the desperate. She wanted the slow, the soft, the kind of closeness she'd never let herself want from anyone.

"I want you to kiss me," she said. "And I want you to take your time."

He smiled against her mouth, a soft, warm thing. "I can do that."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and she felt him begin to move. Not thrusting, not the hard, driving rhythm of before, but a slow, rolling motion that started in his hips and traveled through his whole body, pressing him deeper inside her, then pulling back just enough to make her feel the loss before he pushed in again. It was a lazy, unhurried rhythm, the kind of pace that belonged to a morning with nowhere to be, and she felt herself melting into it, her body opening to him, soft and warm and willing.

"God," he breathed against her mouth. "You feel—you always feel so good, Manika."

She didn't answer. Couldn't. She was too busy feeling—the slow, thick slide of him inside her, the way her body gripped him, the soft, wet sound of their joining that filled the quiet room. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him closer, and he buried his face in her shoulder, his breath hot against her skin.

"This is different," he said, his voice muffled against her. "This is—"

"I know." She pressed her lips to his temple. "I know."

He moved slower. Deeper. Each push was a deliberate, patient thing, dragging against her walls in a way that made her toes curl. She felt the heat building low in her belly, but it was a slow, warm thing, not the urgent, desperate coil of last night. She felt like she could stay here forever, wrapped around him, filled by him, the two of them moving together in the grey morning light like they had all the time in the world.

"Liez." She said his name softly, just to say it. "Liez."

"I like the way you say that." His voice was rough. "I like the way my name sounds in your mouth."

She felt herself flush. "Don't be—"

"I'm not being anything." He lifted his head, met her eyes, and she saw something raw and honest in his grey gaze. "I'm telling you the truth. I've been thinking about you since the day you moved in, and I've imagined this a hundred different ways, and none of them—" He stopped, shook his head. "None of them was this."

"This?"

"This." He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm on her mouth. "Waking up with you. Feeling you—feeling you hold me like I'm something worth holding. This is better."

Her eyes stung. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall, and she pulled him down into a kiss instead, deep and slow, pouring everything she couldn't say into it. He groaned against her mouth, his hips picking up a little speed, and she felt the change in his rhythm—still slow, still patient, but deeper now, more urgent, like he was trying to tell her something with his body that he couldn't find the words for.

"I want to feel you come," he said against her mouth. "I want to feel you come around me, slow, like this. I want to feel every bit of it."

"Then—" She broke off, gasping as he hit a spot inside her that made her see white at the edges of her vision. "Then don't stop."

"Not stopping." He pressed a kiss to her jaw, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone. "Never stopping. Not while you're here. Not while you're—" He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

She felt the orgasm building, slow and warm, spreading through her like honey. It was different from the sharp, desperate climax of last night—this was a deep, rolling thing, a wave that gathered in her belly and spread outward, pulling her under with a soft, gentle inevitability. She heard herself make a sound, a low, broken moan, and he answered it with one of his own, his hips pressing deeper, his hand sliding down to grip her thigh, hooking it over his hip to open her wider.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's it, Manika. Let go. I've got you."

She came with a soft cry, her body arching against him, her cunt clenching around him in slow, rhythmic waves. He felt it—she knew he felt it, the way his breath caught, the way his rhythm faltered, the way he buried his face in her shoulder and groaned her name like a prayer.

"Manika." His voice was wrecked. "Manika, I'm—"

"Inside," she whispered, and she didn't know where it came from, didn't care. "Stay inside me. I want—I want to feel you."

He made a sound she'd never heard from him before—something between a groan and a surrender, his whole body going rigid against hers. She felt him swell inside her, thick and hot, and then he was coming, a deep, shuddering release that seemed to go on and on, filling her in waves that she felt in her chest, in her throat, in the place where they were joined. His hand fisted in the sheet beside her head, knuckles white, and he pressed his face into the curve of her neck, his breath ragged and broken against her skin.

"Manika." Her name came out ruined, scraped raw. "Manika, Manika—"

She held him through it. Wrapped her arms around his shaking shoulders, her legs around his hips, keeping him deep inside her as he emptied himself into her, wave after wave, until his body went slack against hers, heavy and warm and utterly spent. She could feel the heat of his release pooling inside her, a wet, intimate fullness that made her toes curl, and she tightened around him once, just to feel him twitch in response.

"Stay," she whispered, her lips against his temple. "Don't move. Not yet."

He didn't. He lay there, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath slowly evening out against her neck. After a long moment, he lifted his head, and she saw his eyes were wet—not crying, not quite, but shining with something raw and unguarded that made her chest ache.

"That was—" He stopped, swallowed. "I've never—" He stopped again, shook his head. "I don't know how to say it."

"You don't have to say it." She reached up, brushed the dark hair back from his forehead. "I felt it."

He let out a shaky breath, something almost like a laugh. "Yeah. I guess you did." He shifted, and she felt him soften inside her, a slow, gentle withdrawal that made her gasp softly. "Sorry. I'm—I'm getting heavy."

"Don't." She tightened her arms around him. "Don't you dare move."

He laughed again, a real laugh this time, warm and low against her throat. "Bossy."

"I'm a business student." She pressed a kiss to his jaw. "I'm always bossy."

"I like it." He settled back against her, his cheek against her collarbone, his hand splayed across her stomach. "I like you bossy. I like you soft. I like you—" He stopped, and she felt his breath hitch. "I like you."

The words landed somewhere deep in her chest, heavy and warm. She didn't know what to do with them, so she just held him tighter, her fingers carding through his hair, her legs still wrapped around his hips, keeping him close.

"I like you too," she said quietly, and it was truer than she'd meant it to be.

They lay there in the grey morning light, tangled together, his soft cock still nestled against her thigh, the sheets twisted beneath them. She could feel the slow, steady beat of his heart against her ribs, and she matched her breathing to it without thinking.

"What happens now?" she asked, and she hated how small her voice sounded.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he lifted his head, met her eyes, and she saw something serious in his grey gaze, something she hadn't seen before.

"I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't know what happens now. But I know I don't want it to be nothing."

Her throat tightened. "What do you want it to be?"

"I want—" He stopped, searched her face. "I want to figure it out. Whatever this is. I want to figure it out with you."

She felt the tears prick at her eyes again, and this time she didn't blink them away. One slipped down her cheek, and he caught it with his thumb, his touch impossibly gentle.

"Hey," he said softly. "Hey. Don't cry."

"I'm not crying." She was definitely crying. "I'm just—I didn't expect—" She broke off, laughing wetly. "I came here to fuck you, Liez. I didn't come here for this."

"I know." He smiled, a soft, crooked thing. "I didn't either. But here we are."

"Here we are," she echoed.

He kissed her again, slow and sweet, and she felt the kiss deep in her bones, in the place where she'd been so careful and closed-off for so long. She kissed him back with everything she had, pouring all the words she couldn't say into the press of her lips against his.

When they finally broke apart, the light in the room had shifted, brighter now, more gold than grey. She could hear birds somewhere outside the window, and the distant hum of the mansion's old plumbing waking up for the day.

"We should probably—" she started.

"Don't." He pressed a finger to her lips. "Don't say it. Not yet."

She closed her eyes, let herself sink into the warmth of him for one more moment. Then she opened them and smiled, small and real.

"Okay," she said. "Not yet."

He grinned, and it was the grin she knew, the lazy charm, the mischief. But underneath it, she saw something else now, something soft and private that was just for her.

"Good," he said. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

And he kissed her again, and the morning light grew warmer around them, and for a little while longer, the rest of the world could wait.