Mehmet doesn’t speak again. He lifts my leg with practiced ease, cradling it over his arm as he leans in to kiss the inside of my knee. His mouth is warm and deliberate, lips trailing upward in slow, claiming motions. He’s undressing me with focus, tugging fabric away from my hips with hands both reverent and impatient. Each movement is steady but urgent, like he’s unwrapping something he’s been craving too long to delay.
When I shift to help him, he freezes, eyes flicking to mine. “No. Let me.”
His voice is rough, but not unkind. He wants this to be his act of devotion. He pulls the last of the silk away and tosses it aside, then looks at me—really looks. Like he’s taking inventory of every inch of me all over again.
“Cushions aren’t enough,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
He stands and lifts me easily. My arms wrap around his neck, heart racing, breath stuck in my throat. He carries me to the far wall beside the mirror. My back meets cool marble. His heat, in contrast, makes me gasp.
Then I understand why he moved us. The mirror.
He pins me with his gaze—not just in my eyes, but through the glass where I see the shape of us, his body pressed between my thighs, my skin flushed, my chest rising fast. It’s too much and still not enough. My breath stutters, but I can’t look away.
He slides a hand up my leg, then higher, fingers tracing the slickness already gathered between my thighs. My breath catches.
“Look,” he says. “I want you to see how you come apart.”
It should embarrass me, this position—legs spread, pinned, reflected—but it doesn’t. I feel powerful under his stare. Wanted. Seen. My breath hitches as he drags his fingers through my folds, circling slowly before slipping one finger inside, then two. I gasp at the stretch, the way my body tightens around him without hesitation.
He watches my reflection as he sinks to his knees. His mouth replaces his fingers, and I cry out, gripping his shoulders for balance. He groans when I buck into his mouth, when my fingers tug at his hair. My eyes dart between him and the mirror, and the sight of him worshiping me—on his knees, entirely focused on my pleasure—makes something twist tight in my belly.
I whimper when he flicks his tongue just right, my voice bouncing off the marble. My legs tremble, but he steadies me with strong hands. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and the look in his eyes as he glances up tells me he loves seeing me lose control.
I come apart hard, my thighs clenching around his head, hips jerking forward as the heat breaks over me. My legs shake against his shoulders. He groans into me, holding me through it.
But he doesn’t stop. He stands, kisses me fiercely, and without warning, lifts me again. One hand beneath my thigh, the other bracing my back.
His body is hard and hot, and when he presses into me, it’s one long stroke that steals my breath. The stretch is deep. I cling to him, legs locking around his waist.
His hips roll in slow, deliberate thrusts. He watches my face in the mirror, watches every reaction. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Let it happen.”
My hands dig into his back. He shifts his angle and I gasp—louder. My reflection looks wild. Desperate. His mouth trails my jaw, down my neck, kissing and biting softly. He keeps one hand splayed under my thigh, the other pressing against the wall behind me as leverage.
Each stroke is deeper than the last, and I can feel him everywhere. The mirror shows me every movement, every sound etched across my face. I’ve never seen myself like this—undone and radiant. The girl my family called shameful, ruined, too much of everything—here she is, shaking in the arms of a man who looks like he’d worship her for eternity.
When I fall again, it’s with a sob, my body clenching around him. He groans into my shoulder, keeps moving, keeps holding me as I shake. I feel each movement echoing through my spine, my legs trembling from exertion, from pleasure. He doesn’t break rhythm until he feels me soften in his arms, pliant and breathless.
A second wave follows hard and fast, ripping through me, and this time he breaks with me—thrusts erratic, breath caught, spilling into me with a low, guttural sound. The heat of him inside me seals something I didn’t know needed sealing.
He stays inside me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us panting. Sweat clings to our skin. I feel the tremble in his arms as he braces us both against the wall. My pulse beats wildly where our skin touches.
Then, slowly, he lifts me again—arms strong, movements tender—and carries me to the bed.
The sheets are cool, the contrast making me shiver as he lays me down. He joins me, pulling the covers over both of us, his hand brushing my hair back from my face. His lips find mine—no urgency, just warmth.
His hands never leave my skin. They roam slowly—over my ribs, my arms, the curve of my stomach. He finds each bruise and mark he’s left and traces them with aching softness.
A red spot on my inner thigh. A bite mark at the base of my neck. A bruise on my hip.
His expression changes with each one. Not regret. Something deeper. Something like awe.
He bends to kiss a fading bruise, lips lingering. “I want to remember all of this,” he says quietly. “Every piece of you.”
I place my hand over his. “You already do.”
He lowers his mouth to my breast again, not to arouse, but as if kissing devotion into my skin. He rests his cheek there for a moment before pulling me closer.
His fingers slide to my stomach, resting there. Not possessive—protective. Still.
“You’re warm,” he murmurs. “You were always warm. Even when you thought you were breaking.”
“I was,” I whisper.
“But you didn’t.”
I shift closer, curling against his chest. His arm wraps around me without hesitation. One of his hands settles between my shoulder blades, holding me against his chest. I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
“I’ll remember every mark,” he says again, voice low and certain. “Even after they fade.”
His breathing slows against my shoulder. I can still feel the echo of him inside me, the fullness fading into afterglow. My skin is flushed and tender, the air cool where sweat dries.
He doesn’t rush to speak, and neither do I. Words feel too small for what just passed between us.
He draws lazy circles along my hip with his fingertips, as if writing something there I’ll never forget. I close my eyes, letting the sensation anchor me.
This isn’t about being taken.
It never was.
This is about being kept.
And I finally let myself believe he means it.
For the first time in weeks, I close my eyes without fear.
And sleep.