“Then we make the most of those hours.” His voice was quiet, steady. “The time to miss you is after you’re gone. Not before.”
I opened my mouth, but he touched a finger to my lips.
“Give me these hours. Completely. No long goodbyes.”
“Okay,” I said against his finger.
The world didn’t right itself. But it tilted into something I could live with.
He kissed me, slow and deep, his hand rough at the back of my neck, thumb circling the frantic pulse beneath my skin. I dropped my feet to the floor and molded myself to him. He pulled me off the table, steadied me, and steered me down the hall with a hand at my spine.
The bedroom door shut behind us.
Luka crossed to the bed and pulled his shirt over his head in one sharp motion. The sight of him—bare skin, old scars, tension held tight under muscle—hit like heat.
I climbed onto the mattress, but he caught my ankle and pulled me flat onto my back. The duvet cooled my skin. Luka hovered over me, braced on his hands, looking down. His face was still, but there was a tremor in his jaw.
He didn’t ask.
He didn’t need to.
Knees bracketing my hips, he trailed his palm down my throat, over my chest, to my stomach—claiming the space as he went. Then he bent down and bit the hollow above my collarbone. Hard.
Pain sparked. He closed his mouth over it immediately, sucking until a bruise bloomed beneath his lips.
I whimpered. Maybe I even begged.
He moved lower and did it again. And again. Branding a constellation along my breastbone.
He caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with one hand. Then he pressed his mouth to the mark he’d just left, as though he could drink the pain back out of my skin.
I arched under the cage of his body, every nerve raw, oversensitive, the ache and pull of his mouth blurring together. Each mark felt deliberate—his claim, his registry, his refusal to let me forget the hours we had left.
He released my wrists, hooked his hands beneath my knees, and opened me.
I shuddered—surprise and invitation tangled together.
No hesitation. He lowered his mouth to me. The first touch stole the breath from my lungs. He worked without rhythm, changing pressure, angle, pace. Never letting me settle into anything predictable. My body stayed on edge, every nerve lit, my thighs tightening around his head until he pushed them wider again.
There was urgency in it. Not cruelty. Not control.
Hunger.
Like he was trying to take everything he could before the clock ran out.
I wanted him to.
I came once, hard and fast.
The second time broke through more slowly, the tension collapsing out of me as my hands slid into his hair and held him there. He didn’t ease up. He stayed with me through it, drawing the sensation out until my legs trembled and my whole body went loose.
Only then did he lift his head. His mouth was wet. His eyes unfocused, darker than before. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, then caught my jaw and pulled me up. The kiss was immediate and rough, his mouth hard on mine. I tasted myselfon his tongue, felt the edge of his teeth as he pressed closer, closer, until we both had to break apart to breathe.
Luka shoved his jeans and briefs down just enough, rolled on a condom, and guided himself between my legs. No ceremony, no words. Just the blunt, inevitable press of him—and then he was inside me.
He filled me in one hard thrust and stayed there, hands locked on my hips, his forehead dropping to mine. His breath came rough and uneven.
I cried out, the sharp stretch of already sensitive flesh, and wrapped my ankles around him, pulling him closer.