Page 89 of His to Destroy

He helps me, pulling his bloodstained clothes off and tossing them aside until we are nothing but flesh and heat.

He sinks down over me, fitting us together like two missing pieces finally finding their place.

The first brush of him against my entrance has us both gasping.

He pushes in slowly, carefully, watching my face for any sign of hesitation.

There is none.

Only need.

Only love.

Gaspare thrusts into me in one long, slow movement, filling me completely.

I gasp, clutching his shoulders, overwhelmed by the stretch, the heat, the sheer rightness of it.

He groans low in his throat, pressing his forehead against mine.

"You're perfect," he whispers, voice shaking.

He begins to move, slow and deep, each thrust deliberate.

Not just claiming.

Not just taking.

Giving.

Loving.

Healing.

Every inch of his body worships mine — the slow roll of his hips, the way his hands cup my face like I’m made of spun glass, the way he kisses me between every thrust like he can’t bear to be apart for even a second.

I wrap my legs around him, urging him deeper, needing more.

He obeys, picking up the rhythm, each slow stroke driving the breath from my lungs and building a sweet, aching pressure low in my belly.

"Look at me," he rasps against my lips.

I open my eyes, finding his gaze locked on mine, dark and blazing with everything he can’t say out loud.

"You’re mine," he says, thrusting harder, deeper. "Mine to protect. Mine to love. Always."

The words push me over the edge.

I come with a cry, my body clamping down around him, shuddering violently.

He follows seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning my name like a prayer, like a promise.

We collapse together, gasping, hearts pounding in sync.

Gaspare rolls us gently onto our sides, keeping me tucked tightly against him.

For a long moment, we just lie there.

Breathing and existing.

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