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“That’s real.” Pulling out slowly, I thrust back in harder. “That’s not a performance. That’s you and me and nothing else.”

“Again.”

Setting a rhythm that was rough and deep, I fucked her the way she’d asked for. No pretense. No gentleness. Just the raw friction of our bodies moving together in the dark. She met every thrust, her hips rising to take me deeper, her nails digging into my back. Her breath came in short gasps, and I could feel her pulse racing where my hand gripped her thigh.

“Harder,” she said.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Don’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

Gripping her hips, I pulled her closer and drove into her with enough force to make the cot creak beneath us. She cried out, her head falling back, her spine arching off the mattress. The lamplight caught the line of her throat, and I wanted to bite it, mark it, make sure everyone knew she was mine.

“Is that what you want?” I asked.

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Tell me how it feels.”

“It feels like you’re breaking me open.”

“Good.” Leaning down, I bit the side of her neck, hard enough to leave a mark. “I want you to remember this tomorrow. I want you to feel me every time you move. I want you to know that you’re mine.”

“I will.”

Her body tightened around me, her thighs trembling, and I knew she was close. Sliding one hand between us, I found the swollen bud of her clit and rubbed it in tight circles, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. Her breath hitched, and her hands moved from my shoulders to my hair, pulling hard enough to hurt.

“Come for me,” I said.

“Malachi—”

“Come. Let me feel you.”

She shattered. Her body clenched around my cock, her back bowing off the cot, her mouth open in a silent scream. The sight of her coming undone beneath me was enough to drag me over the edge. Burying myself deep, I came inside her, my vision going white, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. Her name was on my lips, but I swallowed it, afraid of what it would mean if I said it out loud.

For a long moment, neither of us moved—only the sound of our breathing, harsh and uneven, filled the small room.

Finally, I pulled out and collapsed beside her on the narrow cot. She turned onto her side, her hand resting on my chest, her fingers tracing the lines of muscle and bone. Her touch was light, almost reverent, and it made my chest ache.

“That was real,” she said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Do you regret it?”

“No.” I covered her hand with mine and held it against my heart. “Do you?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will.”

“Probably.” She smiled, sad and knowing, and I wanted to kiss it off her face. “But I’ll regret not doing it more.”

“I’m going to get us out of here,” I said. The words came out before I could stop them. “I’m going to save enough money, and we’re going to leave. Go somewhere your aunt can’t find us. Somewhere we can start over.”

“You mean that?”

“I mean it.” I pulled her closer, her body warm against mine. “I’m going to choose you. I promise.”