Page 89 of Only the Hunter

My hips buck up in answer.

But he doesn’t move.

“Gabe.”

It’s a complaint. A command. And it’s enough to get him moving.

He sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated, and we both exhale.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel⁠—”

“I know.”

He kisses me and I lift my legs, wrapping around him.

When he pushes up, I trace his straining biceps, and he starts to move.

Slow. Careful.

I don’t want careful.

I rock my hips against him, meeting him with each thrust, squeezing, tightening my muscles.

“Evie—”

“More.”

He lifts my leg over his shoulder, seating himself impossibly deeper.

His hips snap forward, harder now, faster.

The bed creaks. The headboard thuds against the wall.

“I’ve wanted this,” he says between thrusts. “For so long.”

“Me too.”

“You were in my head,” he continues, voice rough. “Every goddamn day.”

“You were in my dreams.”

He nips at my ankle and lowers my leg, lowering over me.

He kisses me, swallowing my moans, and the angle shifts, hitting something deep inside that makes me see stars.

“There,” I gasp. “Right there.”

He adjusts, driving into that spot again and again, and I’m climbing, spiraling, gasping⁠—

“God. You are so tight,” he says. “So close. I want to feel you.”

He lifts.

His thumb presses down, finding that spot, right there.

And I shatter.

Not just from sensation—but from the realization that this changes everything.