He doesn't hesitate this time, but there's something almost frantic in the way he moves. In one fluid motion, he's over me, his body a solid weight that grounds me even as the heat threatens to sweep me away. His scent envelops me—alpha, protective, aroused—and my body responds with a fresh wave of slick.
"I've got you," he murmurs, his lips finding my neck, pressing kisses there like an apology. "I'm going to take care of you. I promise."
There's intensity in his voice that wasn't there yesterday, like he's trying to prove something. To me or to himself, I'm not sure.
I nod, already beyond words as his hands begin to explore my body. He's more focused now, more determined, like he's already mapped my responses and knows exactly what I need. His mouth travels down my chest, leaving a trail of heat that has nothing to do with my fever. When he takes my nipple between his teeth, I arch off the bed with a cry.
"So responsive," he murmurs against my skin, and there's wonder in his voice. "So perfect."
The praise sends warmth through me that has nothing to do with heat, and I hate how much I want to hear more. How much I want him to mean it beyond just the physical.
I want to respond with wit, to show I'm still me despite the heat turning my brain to mush, but then his hand slides between my legs and coherent thought becomes impossible.
"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, his fingers exploring me with careful precision. "Is this okay? Tell me this is okay."
There's desperation in the question, like he needs my permission for more than just touch.
"Yes," I manage, my hips pushing into his touch. "More. Please, Nick."
He obliges immediately, like my pleasure is the most important thing in the world to him. His fingers work inside me while his thumb finds my cock. Each touch is precise, focused, like he's memorizing what makes me gasp.
But it's not enough—not what my body really wants.
"Inside," I gasp, clutching at his shoulders. "I need you inside me."
Nick's eyes meet mine, and what I see there makes my breath catch. Not just desire, but hunger that looks like desperation. Like he needs this as much as I do, but for different reasons.
He positions himself between my thighs with careful reverence, like I'm something precious. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, and despite the urgency of my heat, he takes his time, pushing in slowly, watching my face.
There isn't any discomfort. My body welcomes him like it was made for this—for him. Being filled by him feels like coming home and falling apart at the same time.
"Micah?" Nick freezes, concern replacing desire. "Are you okay?"
I realize I'm crying—not from pain but from the overwhelming rightness of it. How can something feel so perfect when everything else is so complicated?
"Don't stop," I whisper. "Please don't stop."
He studies my face for a moment longer, then begins to move. Slow, deliberate strokes that feel less like fucking and more like worship. My body responds immediately, heat symptoms receding under waves of building pleasure.
"You feel incredible," Nick murmurs, his forehead pressed against mine. "This is beyond anything I could have imagined..."
He trails off, but I hear what he's not saying. That this is different. That I'm different. But different enough to love? That's the question he can't answer.
His words send fresh heat through me, but it's pleasure now, not fever. I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper, and he groans in response.
"Harder," I urge, my nails digging into his back. "Please, Nick."
He complies immediately, like denying me anything is physically impossible. His hips snap forward with new urgency, and each thrust hits my prostate now, making stars explode behind my eyelids.
"There," I gasp against his mouth. "Right there."
Nick adjusts his angle with laser focus, hitting that spot with every stroke. He's so attentive, so determined to make this good for me, and it breaks my heart a little. Because this isn't love—this is guilt. This is him trying to give me pleasure because he can't give me what I really want.
I'm louder than I've ever been during sex, making sounds I didn't know I was capable of, but I can't bring myself to care. Pleasure builds inside me like a storm, threatening to sweep away everything that isn't Nick and this moment.
Without warning, Nick slows, then stops completely. For a terrifying moment, I think he's changed his mind, that the reality of what we're doing has hit him. But then he's pulling out carefully, his hands gentle on my hips.
"Turn over," he says softly, and there's vulnerability in his words. "I want...can I...?"