His belt came undone with a satisfying snap. Draven's eyes locked on mine as I worked it free, my fingers brushing the hard line of his hips where muscle cut sharply inward beneath the waistband.
He surged forward, pulling me into his lap on the bed, his lips crashing into mine with raw, unfiltered hunger.
I groaned into his mouth, the kiss turning fevered as our hands roamed over each other—exploring, learning, craving. His skin was furnace-hot beneath my palms, the ridges of his abdomen flexing as I dragged my fingers down.
But then, just as suddenly, he slowed. His touch was gentle. His mouth softened against mine.
When he pulled back to look at me, there was heat in his gaze—but also something else. Something deeper and fiercer.
Reverence.
"I want to see you," he murmured, brushing silver-white hair from my forehead. "All of you. Not just like this—burning, needy. I want to know every sound you make when I touch you. Every way your body fits with mine. I want this to be the first memory your skin never forgets."
I couldn't speak. Could only nod, because anything more and I might fall apart again.
He kissed me slowly as he guided me back against the pillows, then stood to strip away the rest of his clothing.
My breath caught as I watched him—bare, powerful, the firelight carving deep shadows across the broad planes of his chest and the corded muscle of his thighs.
Every scar on his body told a story of survival, and every inch of him radiated the kind of controlled strength that made my pulse hammer against my ribs.
Draven climbed over me, settling his weight between my legs with excruciating care, bracing himself on his forearms so the heat of his body hovered just above mine.
The contact was electric—chest to chest, hip to hip, his skin sliding against mine in a way that made every nerve ending ignite.
His hands moved with deliberate slowness, starting at my collarbone, fingers trailing with featherlight precision down the center of my chest, over the flat plane of my stomach, until they reached the sensitive crease of my inner thigh.
His gaze never left mine—like he needed to watch me come undone beneath him.
"You're trembling," he said, voice low, full of heat and something like awe.
"So are you," I whispered.
He gave a crooked smile, then pressed a kiss to my throat, my jaw, my lips. His hand found what it was searching for, slicking me with careful preparation, his fingers working me open with the same maddening patience he brought to everything—slow, thorough, devastatingly precise.
I gasped, back arching off the mattress, nails dragging across his shoulders.
"Breathe, little wolf," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I've got you."
My breath hitched, and his free hand found mine—large, warm, anchoring. He laced our fingers together against the sheets and held them there while his other hand continued its work, stretching me with a tenderness that made my chest ache as much as my body burned.
When he finally positioned himself and pressed forward with a slow, steady push, I cried out. The stretch burned—sweet and sharp and so impossibly full that I nearly sobbed from the intensity of it.
Draven stilled, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged and hot against my lips.
"Breathe," he repeated. "Stay with me."
"Draven…" I moaned, and he groaned softly at the sound, the vibration rolling through his chest and into mine.
"I know," he whispered. "I feel it too."
When he was fully seated inside me, still and trembling with restraint, I gasped. Not from pain—but from the sheer overwhelming intimacy of it.
I could feel every part of him. The weight of his body pressing mine into the mattress. The throb of his pulse where we were joined. The way his muscles quivered with the effort of holding himself back.
I matched his breathing, letting it guide me—until his hips began to move.
Slow. Controlled. Devastating.
The roll of his hips sent fire through my veins. My body arched instinctively, craving more. The drag, the heat, the pressure—it made my eyes flutter closed and my hands grip the hard muscle of his back.
"I'm not going to last," he murmured against my temple. "Not when you look at me like that. Not when you feel like this—so damn tight and warm—"
"Don't stop," I gasped, wrapping my legs around his waist, locking him deeper.
"Fuck," he groaned, the word nothing more than air and need. "You're gripping me like you want to pull me apart."
"I do," I breathed. "I want all of you."
He thrust deeper, and the sound that tore from both of us was raw and animal and beyond control.
He moved with purpose now—rougher, deeper, each stroke making my breath catch and my spine bow. His pace turned hungry, primal, fingers tightening on my hips like he needed to anchor himself to me to keep from flying apart.
He drove into me with just enough force to make my toes curl, and I cried out—half moan, half plea.
It was a rhythm born of instinct—his hips moving with devastating precision, drawing pleasure from me in waves that built higher and higher until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only feel.
"That's it," he growled against my throat. "Let go for me again. I want to feel it. I want to watch you break."
When his hand found me between our bodies, stroking in time with his thrusts, I came apart—harder than before—my nails raking down his back as my vision whited out and every nerve caught fire.
"Draven—!"
His rhythm faltered, his control splintering. He cursed low and dark, thrusts growing uneven as he chased his own edge. "You're—fuck—you're going to ruin me…"
I pulled him into a kiss, open-mouthed and messy, desperate and raw. His movements turned rougher, needier, and I held on, body still trembling from release.
One more grind of his hips, one more breathless moan, and then—
He broke.
With a deep, primal groan, Draven buried himself to the hilt and shattered, hips jerking, hands clutching my thighs so tightly I knew there'd be marks.
His face buried against my neck, he clung to me like I was the last thing tethering his mind to this world, his body trembling with the force of it.
"Atlas," he gasped, like it was the last word he'd ever say.
We stayed like that—tangled, sweat-slicked, pulsing with the aftershocks of what we'd done. Of what we'd become. I could still feel him inside me, still feel the echo of release, the way our bodies fit together too perfectly to be anything but fate.
As the heat slowly faded into warmth and his breathing calmed against my chest, he rolled to the side—pulling me with him, refusing to let go.
His arms cocooned me, his body surrounding mine. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.