But he doesn't stop, not when I cry out his name, not when my legs tremble around his shoulders, not even when I'm coming so hard I'm nothing but gasps and shudders. He just keeps licking, sucking, driving me up and over the edge again.
He's relentless—a beautiful, ruinous force, tearing wreckage from my body and building worship in its place.
I come apart twice more before he lets up. By then, my throat is raw from screaming his name.
He holds my hips in his giant hands, licking me through the aftershocks until I'm limp, my whole body a melted thing draped across his arm.
He lifts his face, his eyes dark. "I could eat you for days."
I can't even muster a retort.
I'm still trembling as he stands, gathering me up. He deposits me on the bed, then strips out of his shirt and jeans.
He's beautiful…brutal and perfect andmine.
I reach for him, so damn greedy. I think I'll always be greedy for him, not in the way I'm greedy for oxygen after exertion or rest after a performance, but in a way that eclipses everything else, making the rest of the world small and insignificant.
He comes down over me, his mouth finding mine in a hot, claiming kiss as he peels off my shirt, undoing my bra one-handed.
I squirm under him, needy and desperate. I want to crawl inside his skin, fuse with him, be two people and one person at once. I think he'd let me curl up inside his ribcage and stay there.
He slides a palm under my head, cradling me gently. "Look at me," he whispers, his voice rough. "I want to see you."
I can barely breathe, but I force my gaze up, meeting his eyes. The way he's looking at me—like he's in awe, like I'm a miracle he can't believe—is almost too much. I want to look away and never stop looking simultaneously.
But that's always how it is with him. He looks at me like he is right now, so damn completely, and I want to hide and never hide from him at the same time.
He notches himself at my entrance, his cock sliding through my folds, and then pushes in with agonizing, perfect slowness.
I feel every inch, every pulse of blood, every tremor. I sob his name, tangled in a net of pleasure unlike anything. But it's different this time.
He's slow, methodical, rocking into me with a tenderness I never expected. It's not that he's gentle. He's still Harlan, still huge and hungry. But it's like he's pouring all his brute force into making me feel instead of just making me come.
It's overwhelming. It's…God, it's love.
He braces one forearm beside my head, the opposite hand spreading over my ribcage to hold me still. "You're so fucking beautiful," he rasps. "You know that? You feel like heaven, ballerina."
I can't speak, so I just hold onto his shoulders, my fingers digging in because I'm afraid if I let go, I'll fall right through the bed, right through the earth, right through the center of everything. I'll melt into nothing and everything at once.
He moves inside me, kissing my face, my mouth, my neck. There's no rush, no frantic need to get off. Every stroke is a promise, every kiss a devotion. It's the most vulnerable I've ever felt, but I don't ever want it to end, either.
"I love you," I gasp, because it's the only thing that's true anymore, the only thing I know for certain. "I love you so much, Harlan."
His answer is a silent quake, his whole body pressed to mine, so close I could die like this and be happy. "You know," he says, his voice gravelly as he rocks inside of me. "I've been saving that word since we met. I knew I'd give it to you someday, but Christ, ballerina. I didn't know how perfect it'd feel to hear you say it back and know you mean it."
"Please," I beg, clawing at his back, desperate to have all of him.
His hips grind into mine. I anchor myself to him, my arms locked around his back, my nails digging in as if I can keep him this close forever.
He fucks me harder, his need no longer hidden but breaking open and spilling out.
When my body clenches around him, I cry out, a broken, wild sob of his name that would shame me if shame could exist with him inside me.
He presses his lips to my ear, his hand locked at my jaw. "I'll only ever love you," he whispers. The words are a blade and a balm, slicing through every last defense, every bruise left by a lifetime of being less than.
I break around him, coming like it's a kind of death, shaking so hard I think I might split apart. I tilt my face up, desperate to see him, to let him see me.
He's right there, beautiful and ruined, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes barely open.