Page 182 of Desperate Actions

“Sammy,” I gasp, back bowing off the mattress.

"Fuck, Pixie," he groans, voice rough with worshipful hunger. “Always so wet for me. Always so perfect.”

He devours me then, his tongue and fingers working in perfect sync, knowing exactly how to unravel me, how to make me come so hard, I forget my own damn name.

The moment I shatter, I scream his name, my body shaking apart beneath him.

But he isn’t done.

He moves over me, into me, his hard, thick length pushing inside, stretching me wide in the only way I ever want to be stretched again.

Christ, he fills me so good.

And he knows it.

He growls against my lips as he sinks in to the hilt, his hands gripping my hips like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

And I know then—without a doubt—that this is what I was made for. To be his. To belong to this man, completely.

Happiness doesn’t always come to those who deserve it.

But now? Tonight?

Tonight, I claim it.

Because he is mine.

My protector. My unwavering supporter. My whole fucking universe.

I breathe him in, feel his heart pounding against mine, and in that moment, I know I have to tell him.

Not later.

Now.

“Sammy?” I whisper, my voice raw, spent.

“Hmm?” he murmurs, tucking me tight against him, his nose buried in my hair, inhaling me like I’m his oxygen.

I swallow, nerves twisting in my stomach, but I press forward.

“I was thinking, we should redo the room next door.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“Well,” I bite my lip, watching him carefully, “I’d like a connecting door with extra alarms, and of course, we need to childproof everything?—”

His body goes rigid.

He freezes.

Then, slowly, his head jerks up.

The way he looks at me burns.

Like he already knows. Like he just needs me to confirm it.

Holy fuck.

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