She does.
She rides me at her own pace. Her hands on my chest for balance, her hair loose, the claiming marks warm at her throat. Slow and deep, each stroke deliberate. I feel everything—the grip of her cunt on every withdrawal, slick on my shaft, the vibration running at her frequency through both of us. I run my hands up her thighs to her hips and I stay at her rhythm.
She's not managing her face. There's nothing to manage against. Her jaw and her brow and her eyes do what they do, and I watch all of it and grip her hips and don't change the pace.
She finds the angle. Tips forward and my cock finds the place that makes her thighs clamp tight and her breath break. She works it—small grinding strokes, the vibration running right there—and the sounds she makes are not the spy's sounds. Not controlled. Just her.
I want to grip her hips and set my own rhythm. I want to drive in hard and deep and not stop. I have both cocks hard and aching and her cunt around one of them and I hold every bit of it back and let her work what she found.
"Vaelis—"
She comes.
It clamps around my cock—the rhythmic pulses of her orgasm, her whole body gripping—and her hands dig into my chest and she says my name. I feel every wave through both my cocks and through the bond. Her pleasure arriving in my chest at full volume. No management. No warmth running underneath. Just her.
I hold her hips steady. I work her through every pulse of it until she's shaking.
When it finishes she drops her forehead to my throat and breathes.
"Both," she says. Barely sound. "Give me both."
Both my cocks throb.
"Lean forward," I say. "Hands on my chest. You control the depth."
She leans forward. Palms flat. Looks at me.
I press the lower cock to her arse.
She breathes through the resistance—slow, deliberate, her body making room—and I hold still and press in a fraction and hold again. Thick and cold and straight, and she is tight here, and I take my time with it. When she exhales and relaxes I press forward. When she tightens I hold.
It takes time. She is doing this herself, consciously, fully aware. I feel every moment. Both shafts buried in her, the wall between them thin, both pressing against each other through her.
She goes very still.
Breathing.
"Both," she says. Quiet. Certain.
"Both," I say. "All of me."
I start the dual vibration. Upper at her frequency. Lower deeper, different register. She moans—nothing managed left in the sound.
She starts to move.
I let her set the rhythm for six strokes. Then she says "harder" and something in me that has been holding for three days lets go.
I grip her hips and drive both cocks in together.
She cries out. Her hands dig into my chest. I set my rhythm—deep, hard, both shafts moving in her simultaneously—andI feel everything. Her cunt clamped tight on the upper. Her arse gripping the lower. The vibration running through both. Her sounds with every stroke, short and broken, and the bond carrying her pleasure into my chest at the full volume of it with nothing between it and me.
This is what was there before the plan.
The real thing. Her, all of her, nothing running underneath.
"Yours—" Into my throat. The word she always says. Except there is nothing amplifying it. No magic on it. Just her meaning it.
"Mine," I say, and I mean it in every direction, and I drive deeper.