Ruth’s POV
I didn’t wait for him to speak. I didn’t need words. Not tonight.
I walked into the bedroom and undressed slowly, not to tease, not to tempt. Just to reclaim the quiet that had been stolen from me hours ago. Each piece of clothing fell with a soft whisper to the floor. I didn’t care if he watched. I wanted him to, let him see how I moved without hesitation now. Let him wonder what I was thinking.
When he entered behind me, I didn’t turn. I simply crawled onto the bed, lay back against the cool sheets, and opened my thighs just enough to invite, not beg.
His steps were careful. His hands, when they reached for me, trembled slightly, like he was unsure of the line tonight. I didn’t draw one. I lifted his hand and placed it over my breast, pressed his palm flat to my skin, and arched into his touch.
His breath faltered. I felt the shift in him, restraint thinning under my quiet demand. When he leaned down and kissed me, it was soft, reverent. But I deepened it, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan. I liked that sound. I wanted more of it.
He moved over me, body flush to mine, and I wrapped my legs around his hips, grinding up into him. I didn’t whisper his name. I didn’t plead. I guided him with my hands, fingertips grazing the ridges of his spine, lower, until I felt the heat of him between my thighs. I rolled my hips again.
“Ruth,” he rasped, voice fraying. “Tell me what you want.”
I met his eyes. “Take me.”
When he entered me, it was slow and deep, stretching me until I gasped. Not from pain. From the way my body clenched around him instantly, greedy and already close. I exhaled, rolling my hips to meet him halfway. The sensation of him filling me, thick, hard, and unyielding, rushed through me like fire licking at the edge of something unstable.
Each thrust was steady, controlled. His grip found my hips, grounding us both, guiding the rhythm. I locked my ankles around him, pulled him deeper, dragged my nails across his back, not to hurt, just to leave something there, a reminder.
His mouth found my neck. He kissed below my ear, then lower, down to the pulse pounding in my throat. “You feel unreal,” he groaned. “So fucking perfect like this.”
My body was slick with sweat, my skin hypersensitive. Every slide of his hips stoked the tight coil inside me. I couldn’t close my eyes. I didn’t want to miss a second of how he looked above me, tense, focused, devouring me with every thrust like I was the only thing anchoring him. He reached between us, fingers circling my clit with the same rhythm. I cried out, head tipping back. My thighs began to shake, and still, I didn’t stop him. I pulled him in harder, faster.
“Emmett-” I gasped, the edge rushing closer. “Don’t stop.”
“Not until you come,” he promised. “Not until I feel you break for me.”
And when I did, when the orgasm tore through me with a choked sob, I clung to him like I was splintering in real time. My walls clenched, milking every thrust as he groaned loud against my throat, his pace stuttering. He came with a rough, broken sound, buried deep inside me, his body trembling against mine. His arms wrapped tight, chest heaving, mouth pressed to my shoulder like he was afraid to let go.
After, he collapsed beside me, pulled me in close, and let his hand drift down my back in soft, lazy strokes. But even as his breathing slowed, even as our skin cooled beneath the sheets, my mind stayed sharp.
My body was soft against his, but something inside me was still coiled, still watching, still waiting. Because the sex had been perfect, and it still hadn’t silenced the storm.