Work Text:
Gold Bar - for Onelooseskull
Emmrich glanced up at the steel clock on his home office wall - a Christmas present from Vorgoth two years ago that was stubbornly ordinary. It still read 6.12 pm, but the display on his phone showed 8.02 pm. The clock has stopped, battery life drained—the same as his patience, close to running out.
Ivy had read the text he sent her an hour ago. She had surfaced several times on FadeApp since his last message, but had vanished quickly after each appearance. He clenched his jaw and hit the ‘call’ button.
The phone rang out.
Again.
No answer.
He sent another message, which was delivered instantly. Her status flickered ‘online’. The ticks turned green, showing she had read the message, and then her profile went back to ‘offline’.
Emmrich clenched his jaw as he called a third time. Trying hard to keep his voice even as he left her a voicemail.
“Darling, I’m just checking to see that you’re safe. Let me know when you need a lift home, and I’ll come get you.” He ended the call a bit too firmly, set the phone down with a dull thump, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Emmrich resumed checking his emails, periodically glancing at his phone. Another half hour slipped by.
Nothing.
He picked up his phone and called Neve.
“Hello?” the woman yelled, her voice drowned out by noise and commotion in the background.
“Neve?” he began. “Is Ivy with you? Is she safe?”
“Yes, she’s here. Hang on a sec,” Neve said, fumbling as she tried to pass the phone to Ivy.
“No,” Ivy’s voice came through. “I can’t speak to him. He’ll know!”
“For fuck’s sake!” Emmrich muttered to himself. “Ivy?” He raised his voice more than he intended, his worry and frustration evident. “Dearest, speak to me?”
Ivy sighed, “I didn’t want you to be angry.” Her voice came through, and relief washed through him.
“My dear girl, I just wanted to know that you are safe.”
“I am. I swear.” He heard a loud cheer down the line.
A guy shouted, “Rook, you’re next!”
Emmrich felt a chill run through him - jealousy, rage, possessiveness. It wasn’t a voice he recognised. “Ivy, darling, where are you? Who are you with?”
“I have to go.”
And then the call ended.
***
Emmrich sat in the chair in front of the fire, work dealt with, a cup of tea balancing on his knee, and his glasses poised on his nose as he read. He had read the same sentence eight times over, and every time his mind wandered. He checked the watch on his wrist and sighed, slammed the book shut, not bothering to move the bookmark, and tossed it onto the table beside him with a heavy thud.
He flicked the switch for the fire to die out behind the glass and stalked to the hallway. Lifting his coat from the hanger, he took off his shoes and picked up his car keys.
“Won’t tell me where you are. Fine. I will look for you.” He muttered crossly. Checking his pocket for his phone, he made his way to the lift when his phone pinged.
Fadeapp Notification.
Rook: Does the offer of the lift still stand? x
Emmrich gritted his teeth before replying. Relief and annoyance flooded him.
Emmrich: Depends. I am about to head out and look for my darling girlfriend. Don’t suppose you have seen her? 5.4. Dark hair. Attitude like a (insert something). Most beautiful eyes in Thedas.
Rook: I saw someone matching that description. Great rack? Habit of pissing people off? Patience of a saint?
Emmrich: I wouldn’t be sure about that last one.
Rook: (laughing face emoji)
And Emmrich left her on read. And headed down to the car. He didn’t start the engine. Just sat there and waited, giving her a taste of her own medicine.
Rook calling.
“Yes?” His answer clipped.
“Hey. You didn’t say whether the lift offer still stood.”
“Oh,” Emmrich feigned. “A timeframe for responses was not something I had considered.”
Rook sighed, “Emm, look I-”
“Where are you?”
Rook gave the address. “Do you mind dropping Neve and Bellara off on the way home?” She spoke more quietly now. She understood he was annoyed.
“On my way.” Emmrich didn’t wait for a reply and ended the call.
***
Emmrich kept his hands at ten and two as he drove across town. It was dark out, winter on its way. His phone connected to the car and sat in the slot at the front. He had thought of taking the long way across to the pick-up spot, but had decided against it.
Since the fire, he wanted to keep her safe more than he had before her apartment had gone up in flames and she was rescued. Every time he waited for her, whether it was a reply to a text message or when her phone rang off to answer phone, it felt like she was missing. He hated that he had gone this way. Sure enough, he was eager, possessive some would say, but it came from a good place. And now, every bit of radio silence felt like torture.
Emmrich pulled to the curb outside the neon-lit arcade where the trio had arranged to be picked up . The night shoved cold through the cracked window. Bellara appeared first, grinning, bags on both wrists; Neve followed with a garment box and a large bag. And Ivy, who had her hood up, cheeks pink from the wind, came last, smiling when she saw him, like it could smooth everything over. Bags on both of her arms.
He got out. The boot popped. He took Bellara’s bags without a word and set them in carefully, then reached for Neve’s box, checking the top wasn’t bending. Ivy stepped up with her bags and that same smile, tentative at the edges.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
“Of course,” he replied, evenly. He held her gaze, his jaw tense. She tipped up on her toes to kiss him. He turned just enough to give her his cheek.
It landed; he felt her go still for half a beat, then recover.
“I’ll put this in,” she said, voice light, and set her bags in the boot. He closed it; the thunk felt final.
“Bell, you take the front,” Ivy said as she rounded the car, pulling her hood around herself.
Bellara claimed the passenger seat with a theatrical sigh of relief; Neve took the back seat behind Bellara. Ivy slid in behind the driver, her knee brushing the back of the driver’s seat before she tucked her legs to the side and folded her hands in her lap.
“Seatbelts,” Emmrich said, more to say something procedural than because they needed reminding.
Clicks answered him. He pulled away from the curb.
“How has your evening been?” Emmrich was polite.
Bellara launched into a debrief. “Neve threatened to hex a couple in front who were holding it up with returns. We waited for over half an hour! They complained about everything.”
Neve snorted. “I did no such thing. I used my words like a well-adjusted adult.”
“You used your eyebrows like weapons,” Bellara said, delighted. “It was magnificent.”
Emmrich let them fill the car. He preferred it to the hush where his thoughts got loud.
“Rook?” Bellara twisted to peer between the seats. “You’re quiet. That dress you bought, tell him.” Ivy shook her head. “She looked indecent in the best way, Emmrich. Just needs somewhere to wear it.”
Ivy’s laugh was small. “It wasn’t indecent.”
“It was absolutely indecent,” Neve said, deadpan. “But I’m glad you bought it. You looked beautiful.”
“Well, the twins certainly did.” Bellara sniggered, and Neve joined.
Ivy didn’t answer. Emmrich checked the rear-view out of reflex and found her already looking. She dropped her eyes to the window. He returned his to the road.
“How are you, boss?” Bellara asked, breezily.
“Grateful for the weekend,” he said, eyes forward.
They hit a red light. The car settled as Emmrich, Neve and Bellara chatted. In the mirror, Ivy’s reflection was all small tells: the zipper of the hoodie picked at with a thumbnail; the mouth pressed into a line she thought read as neutral.
“Find everything you needed?” he asked the car, tone civil, as if to distract himself from wanting to watch her.
“More than,” Neve said. “I have achieved both a dress and a moral victory.”
“Tea towels,” Bellara added proudly. “Got my ears pierced.” Gesturing to the new hoops that sat at the top of her ears.
Ivy made a soft sound that could have been a laugh. He checked the mirror again. She was looking at his hand on the gearstick, as if it might deliver a verdict. He tightened his fingers on it, then loosened them.
The light turned green. He drove.
“You’re quiet,” Bellara said again, this time to Ivy, gentler.
“I’m fine,” Ivy said. “Tired.”
Another glance in the mirror, and her eyes were on him instead of the window. She tried the smile again, a smaller one. He didn’t give one back.
They rolled past the river. The water threw city light back at itself in broken lines. Neve narrated a stranger’s dog wearing a sweater; Bellara asked if they could stop for chips; Emmrich said no, but meant it kindly. Ivy kept her hands folded and her voice to herself.
At Neve’s building, he pulled into the loading bay. Neve squeezed Ivy’s knee before she got out. “Text when you’re home.”
“I will,” Ivy said, and Emmrich’s jaw worked at the irony. He helped Neve collect her items, box into her arms. They waited until she entered the building, and then he drove on.
Bellara’s stop was two streets later. She kissed the air at both of them and jogged through the lobby turnstile with her bags swinging.
Silence took the passenger seat when he pulled back into traffic. Ivy shifted behind him, making a slight sound of fabric. He caught her in the rearview mirror again. She wasn‘t looking at him. Her gaze was downcast.
“Thank you for picking us up,” she mumbled. “I’m sorry I didn’t reply."
He kept his eyes on the road and didn’t answer.
She breathed out, barely audible. He drove the rest of the way with the city running past the windows and the rear-view full of the woman he loved and didn’t know how to forgive for hours of nothing. When the penthouse garage door rolled up, he keyed them in with a steadiness that cost him, parked in their slot, and killed the engine.
“Bags,” he said, getting out, because the small tasks were the ones that kept his hands from shaking with the memory of flames that weren’t there. He lifted hers from the boot. She reached for it; he didn’t let go until her fingers were under the strap.
“Thank you,” she tried again.
He nodded once and led the way to the lift. In the brushed steel of the doors, their reflections waited: his face set; hers searching it until she looked away, defeated. The lift ride was long and silent, bar the humming of the mechanics, until the doors finally opened at their floor.
He unlocked the door; she took off her shoes. He set his keys down with more care than necessary.
“You didn’t reply,” he stated.
“I know.” She moved past him. “I did me-”
“An hour after I rang you.” He interrupted her. “To ask for a lift home.”
“I was with friends, Emmrich. Not in a ditch.” Her tone edged bright with sarcasm. “If giving us a lift was too much trouble, you should’ve said no.”
She shifted the bags in her arms. He tried to take two before they slipped, but she pulled away from him.
“I am not so petty I’d leave you stranded.”
“Great,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Next time, I won’t bother. Even if you do offer.”
“Next time,” he returned, voice even, “you won’t need a rescue because you’ll have sent a line when you knew you’d be late.”
“Oh, perfect. A performance improvement plan.” She set the bags on the console with more force than needed. “Do I get quarterly reviews too, or just verbal warnings?”
“If that’s what it takes to keep you safe, yes.”
“That’s not keeping me safe,” she shot back. “That’s managing me.”
“Since the fire,” he said—because he’d promised himself he would say it instead of swallow it—“late doesn’t feel like late. It feels like…missing.”
“I apologised before I got in the car.”
“And I heard it,” he said, precise, colder than he meant. “But an apology after the fact doesn’t fix radio silence. One line is sufficient, Ivy; I’m safe.”
“Right.” She huffed a laugh with no humour. “Noted.”
“‘Noted’ isn’t the same as done.”
“And lectures aren’t the same as conversations.” She shook her head. “I feel like I’m having a row. I said sorry. What more can I do? Stop making me feel guilty. I’m getting changed.” Ivy headed for the bedroom.
“Take your time,” he said, jaw tight. “And next time, it would be prudent if you took my feelings into account.”
Emmrich was met with the slam of the door. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, exhaled through it, and stared at the dark city outside the glass. He heard drawers, a hanger scrape, water run and stop. His phone vibrated on the console with nothing useful.
Emmrich moved to the sofa.
She was gone two minutes—long enough for him to pretend he cared about his book—then padded back out with her hair raked into a ponytail. The clothes from before were gone. In their place: a deep green set that made his mouth go dry…
If he were to look up. He kept his attention on the book he was not reading.
“Tea?” she called over her shoulder.
“I’m more than capable myself,” he said before his sense could catch up with his mouth. He heard the pettiness as it left him and hated it instantly. She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think of others at the last minute when I want something.”
A drawer slammed. The sound cracked through his temper.
He looked up to tell her to drop the attitude…and stalled.
The set was new. The green hit like an omen, the colour of his favourite tie, the one he used to tie her up for the first time, cut through with gold hardware that winked when she moved. The top clung to the line of her ribs, dipping low. When she reached for the kettle, the fabric lifted a breath and the underside of one breast threatened him with a soft, impossible curve.
The shorts—if the word applied—sat high on her waist, hem edged in a narrow gold piping. The fabric hugged the meat of her hips; side slits flashed the pale inner thigh. When she bent the slightest degree, the lower curve of each cheek glanced out like a dare. Heat pooled low in him, sharp and immediate. His jaw locked; the page under his thumb creased.
She turned and walked toward him with two mugs, green catching in the lamp glow, gold kissing her skin in quick points of light. That was when his gaze snagged—hard and clean—on the small gleam at her navel.
A bar of gold.
New.
Ivy set the mugs on the table. He was already moving. His hand closed around her forearm, not rough, but certain, drawing her into the space between his knees.
“What the fuck is that?” he asked, voice low, eyes fixed on the gold where it pierced her.
She tore her arm free. “What does it look like?” She dropped onto the settee—harder than she meant to—and winced, one hand flying to her stomach before she caught herself.
The flinch cut through his temper like a scalpel. Everything inside him snapped back into rank.
“Ivy,” he said, scorn edging his voice. He sat beside her. She folded her arms tight over the green top, chin up, daring him. “Let me see.”
“No.” She snatched up a cushion and hugged it—thin, emerald velvet, a flimsy shield.
He stared at the cushion, then at her mouth—the stubborn, gorgeous line of it. Something in him rattled. Since the fire, the wrong kind of silence could lance him clean through; now this small, stupid silence—a pillow between them—needled every nerve.
Emmrich made himself breathe.
In.
Hold.
Out.
He flattened his palms on his knees because if he reached, he would take, and he was still trying to be a gentleman who asked.
“I am not negotiating with upholstery,” he said, too evenly. “Remove it.”
She didn’t. Her gaze slipped to the window, to the smear of city lights on the glass. His self-command frayed another thread. The muscle in his jaw ticked. He let one hand lift—slow, visible—then curled it back to his thigh like he’d touched a live wire.
“Ivy,” Emmrich’s voice was quieter now, anger sheathed in restraint, “if it hurts, I need to know. If you broke skin today, I need to see it. Put the cushion down.” He said the last line through gritted teeth.
She sighed, held his stare a beat like she might refuse, and set the pillow aside.
Her abdomen was smooth, taut, warm-lit by the lamp. And there it was: a slim bar of gold through her navel, a tiny charm catching light, glinting like a dare against her skin. The gold matched the rings on her straps, the fine chain at her throat, the gold that adorned his arms and fingers. Green and gold; hers and his. It hit him low and hot.
His jaw locked. He didn’t touch. He leaned in, clinical, studying placement, edges, any flush that wasn’t natural heat. Slight swelling. The faintest mark of red. Yet, otherwise, just perfect, infuriating gold where his mouth wanted to be.
“Who,” he asked quietly, “gave you permission to put holes in what’s mine?”
Her mouth curved into something sharp. “I don’t need permission.”
His mouth thinned. “You booked a piercing. Alone. Late. After ignoring my calls.” The banker in him surfaced—measured, merciless. “You risk infection; migration; tearing if it snags; scarring you won’t love in six months. If the studio wasn’t sterile, single-use needles, you risk more than a bad photo. You don’t take unknown risks with your body and then make me find out by accident.”
“It wasn’t unknown,” she shot back, eyes bright. “I researched. I went to a reputable place.”
“Which you could have told me,” he returned, voice clipped. “Before you disappeared.”
She held his stare, then softened just enough to let the truth out. “I did it for you.”
That landed. He froze, eyes cutting from the small bar in her navel to her face.
“For me?” he repeated, quieter.
She stood. “Wait.” She slipped to the bedroom and came back with a small velvet box. She opened it on the coffee table: his cufflinks—gold, each a precise skull, elegant and severe.
“I had this made the same,” she said, standing at his eye level for him to inspect. “So I could show whose I was.”
Silence pressed. Something in his posture eased; the anger didn’t vanish, but it found edges.
“Let me see properly.”
She planted her feet in front of him. He sat on the edge of the sofa—gentleman, tyrant, both—then leaned in without touching the jewellery. The gold skull glinted and lay still against her skin as he looked from the charm to the cufflinks in the open box, back to her belly, and finally up to her eyes.
“Is it sore?” His hands rested on her waist.
“A little.” She shrugged. “I’ve always healed quickly.”
“That,” he said evenly, “is not a plan.” He didn’t touch the jewellery—didn’t even breathe on it. He checked the surrounding skin instead, clinical: colour, heat, any angry shine. “Today?”
She nodded.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “So you were late, ignored my calls, and also acquired a fresh wound.” His thumb pressed a fraction firmer at her waist, grounding both of them. “Saline only. No baths. Loose waistbands. No tugging. If it reddens or spikes hot, you tell me immediately.”
“I will.”
His gaze flicked to the open box on the table, then back to the tiny gold skull at her navel. He went still in a different way. “You matched my cuffs.”
“I did.” She stood square for him, hands at her sides like he’d asked. “For you.”
He sat there a beat, breath smoothing out. When he spoke again, the edge had shifted from fury to possession. “New rule: you don’t change your body without telling me first. And when you are later than you said, you send one line: I’m safe. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good.” His palm slid from her waist to the small of her back, not pushing, just keeping her close while he looked. “You’ll keep it clean and still. When it’s healed, I’ll decide what you wear.”
Her mouth tipped. “Yours.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “Mine,” he agreed—quiet, unequivocal—then tipped his head toward the sofa cushion beside him. “Sit. Slowly. Let me look a moment longer, and then you can drink your tea.”
She sat beside him and leaned back into the cushions, one forearm tucked behind her head, the other resting over her ribs. He turned toward her, gaze level with the gleam at her navel. His long fingers traced the flat of her stomach—careful to avoid the fresh jewellery—then slid up to skim the undersides of her breasts through the thin top.
“Off,” he said, low. “I want to see you in nothing but that,” he murmured, possessive and certain.
She lifted, and he peeled the skimpy fabric away with surgeon-careful hands, eyes never leaving the new gold skull. The shorts followed, until she was bare under the soft lamplight and his gaze, nothing on her but the tiny glint at her belly. His palm flattened on her sternum, easing her back another inch.
“Stay still.”
He held her there and looked—really looked—thumb stroking idly at her waist while his eyes mapped what belonged to him. Heat settled under his control; the edge in his voice sharpened.
“Do I need to remind you who you belong to?”
“No.”
His mouth curved, humourless. “I think that’s the wrong answer, my dear.” His knuckles brushed the very edge of the charm without touching it. “You see, if you were good for me, you would have kept me informed. You would have told me about this.”
He kissed the inside of her knee, then higher—slow, inexorable—scorning her softly between each press of his mouth.
“You do not go dark on me,” kiss, “and come home late,” kiss, “with fresh metal in my property,” kiss, “and expect a smile.”
Her breath hitched. He took his time. He mouthed along the line where hip met thigh, careful of the new piercing, hands firm on her hips to keep her steady.
“Open,” he said—filth starting to roughen his tone. She let her knees fall wider on command. “Wider. That’s it, dearest.”
He exhaled against the crease of her thigh and didn’t give her what she wanted. Not yet. He dragged his mouth along the opposite hipbone, tongue a hot stripe, voice a quiet knife.
“You belong to me. Your time. Your body. Your pretty little decisions.” His fingers tightened, pulling her an inch closer. “You want freedom? You earn it by telling me where you are. You want jewellery? You tell me first, and I decide if it sits on this body I paid for with my attention.”
Her laugh broke. “Arrogant.”
“Accurate.” Another slow kiss, higher. “Say it.”
“Yours.”
“Again.” His mouth hovered where she needed him and refused to descend.
“Yours,” she breathed—wrecked, honest.
“Better.” He finally let the filth slip. “This pussy is mine. This throat. This little belly with my mark.” His tongue flicked the damp heat of her, and she jumped, a shocked sound spilling from her mouth. He groaned once—low, involuntary—then clenched his jaw like he’d punish himself for it.
“Hands behind your head,” he ordered. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch yourself. Keep your hips still—do not upset that bar.”
She laced her fingers behind her skull and arched, obedient by inches. He rewarded her with a slow, obscene lick that made her toes curl, then withdrew, breath steadying.
“You disappeared,” he murmured against her skin. “You will not do it again.”
“I won’t,” she gasped. “I—”
“Shh.” His thumb slid down to part her, precise; his mouth sealed where it would hurt her best, deep and deliberate. He ate like he meant to erase the hours she’d been gone, filthy and controlled, pausing only to scold between drags of his tongue. “You send the line. I’m safe. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Louder.”
“Yes.”
He sucked hard; her hips tried to rise—he pinned them. “Still,” he said. “You’ll keep that pretty skull perfectly still for me.”
She whimpered, shaking. He lifted his head, chin wet, eyes dark and amused with no softness at all.
“Good girl,” he said, finally granting the smallest scrap of praise. “Now keep your mouth open and let me hear you while I remind you exactly whose you are.”
He watched her shake under his mouth and didn’t let her climax.
“Tonight you don’t get to finish,” he said, voice level. “You’ll learn to sit with it.”
“Please,” she breathed, eyes glassy. “Please—”
“Define your request.”
“I want to come. I want you to let me.”
“Request denied.” His thumbs set a frame at her hips. “Hold still. Thirty seconds.”
She made a helpless sound. He held her right at the edge he’d built—heat coiled and bright—and didn’t tip her. Thirty counted out in his head; at thirty-one, he withdrew a fraction, breath steady, and pressed a slow kiss two inches from where she needed it.
“Why are you being denied?” he asked softly.
“Because I disappeared,” she gasped. “Because I didn’t tell you I was safe. Because I didn’t tell you about the piercing.”
“Better.” He kissed the other hipbone, patient as a metronome. “Again.”
She repeated it, voice thinner. He rewarded her with a single, precise touch that snapped her back to the edge—and then he took it away, palm flattening over her lower belly, warm and owning, careful of the new gold charm.
“Open wider.” She obeyed. He ghosted his mouth where it would ruin her if he stayed, breath hot, tongue a brief brand—then gone. She swore; he smiled against her skin.
“You don’t get bliss as a bandage,” he said. “You get control.”
“Emmrich, please.” Her hands snaked into his salt and pepper hair.
“Shh. Hands behind your head.” She laced her fingers once more, as told; he glanced up, satisfied. “Good girl. Breathe in… hold… out.” He timed her breaths to his teasing: the briefest drag of heat when she inhaled, nothing when she needed it most. Her thighs trembled; the tiny skull at her navel glinted and lay still.
“Up.” His voice was flat. “Straddle me.”
She climbed into his lap, knees outside his thighs, hands braced on his shoulders. He guided her the last inch, lined himself up, and pressed her down—slow enough to make her feel every taken centimeter, deep enough to steal her breath.
“You ride,” he said. “I decide.”
“Yes.”
“Prove you’re sorry.”
She started hard. No teasing, no warm-up—just a brutal rhythm, hips snapping, breath catching at the base of his throat. He didn’t kiss her. He watched her. Big hands locked around her hips, thumbs digging in, making her take all of it, every thrust a correction.
“Faster.”
She obeyed, thighs burning, the wet slap of bodies turning shameless. She tried to guide the pace; he let her—for now. When her breath hiked and her core clamped down in that telltale way, his fingers bit and he held her still, buried to the hilt, no friction at all.
“Still.”
She shook. “Please—”
“Hold.” His gaze didn’t move. “Breathe. In. Out.”
The peak bled off, cruel inch by cruel inch. When he felt the tremor pass, he eased his grip.
“Carry on.”
She rode him again, harder, chasing forgiveness with every grind. He didn’t give her his mouth, only his jaw to scrape her teeth over, only the cut of his stare. She tried to find the angle that would break her; he changed it with his hands and made her work for nothing but his approval.
“Say it,” he ordered, voice unruffled while she panted. “What are you doing?”
“Making it right.”
“How.”
“I ride. You decide.”
“Good girl. Faster.”
Her rhythm stuttered, then brutalized. She was slick enough that he slid through her like heat; she clenched too soon, muscles seizing around him, throat going high and thin with sound.
He crushed her hips down again. “Freeze.”
She whimpered, eyes blown wide, everything in her begging to move. His hand slid from her hip to her throat, not squeezing—just a firm band to ground her, his thumb under her jaw, pulse thudding against it.
“Look at me.”
She looked. The need shook her. He made her wait, breath caged in his palm, until the tightness softened and the edge ran out like a tide.
“Carry on.”
She surged, desperate now, riding him like the apology had to live in her bones. His other hand stayed on her throat, steady and warm, keeping her up where he wanted her. She tried to chase friction; he lifted his hips a measured inch, enough to ruin her timing.
“Use me,” he said. “Earn it.”
“I’m trying—”
“Try harder.”
She did: knees digging in, back arching, sweat slicking the line of her spine. The third climb hit fast and savage; he felt it before she did—the deeper clamp, the frantic pitch of her breath, the way her hands turned to claws on his shoulders.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“I—please—”
“Stop.” His fingers locked her down at the root, the other hand firm at her throat. “Hold it.” A beat. Another. He kept her right there, shaking over him, eyes wet and furious and wrecked, until the quake leaked out of her and left nothing but need.
Her lashes fluttered. “I can’t—”
“You can,” he said. “Carry on.”
She broke a little then—sound, pride, all of it—and rode him like punishment. He stayed calm and devastatingly in control, guiding her to the pace he wanted, the angle he liked, no mercy anywhere but in his steadiness.
He tightened his grip. “You need to earn it, darling.”
She moved—planted her feet wide on either side of him—and started to piston up and down, fucking him hard. The change in leverage wrecked him. His head tipped back, eyes shut, a raw sound tearing out of his chest.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “Keep going.”
He looked down to watch her swallow him—every brutal slide to the hilt, every slick pull. “Ngh—fuck… that—” his breath snagged, “that sight.”
His hand came to her throat again, steadying, guiding her up to his mouth. He kissed her—hungry, possessive, teeth scraping her lower lip—then broke just enough to speak into it. “Come for me.”
She rode him raw, eyes burning into his as she chased the order. He met her from beneath, hips driving up, hands hauling her down to take every inch. His control snapped first—he spilled deep with a hard, helpless groan, clutching her to him while it took him apart.
The sound and the heat tipped her. She broke an instant after, grinding through it on his lap, mouth open against his, a stuttering cry as she followed him over. He held her through the shake and aftershock, breathing ragged, forehead to hers, thumbs stroking slow at her waist while the tremors ebbed.
They stayed there, panting—her weight warm on him, his chest lifting under hers. He stroked her hair back, slow, settling her.
“Please, my love,” he said, voice rough from use. “Don’t disappear on me again. I don’t care who you’re with, or how long you’re gone for. I just need to know you’re safe.”
Her throat worked. “Okay.”
“Say it.”
“I won’t disappear,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you. Every time.”
His palm cradled the back of her head. “Good.” He breathed with her until both of their hearts calmed down, then kissed her hairline and didn’t let go.