#confessional

“I bloody saw it.”

Dom didn’t even shut the door properly. Just stood there, chest already heaving like he’d run up the stairs, green eyes too bright. I didn’t look up.

“Then you shouldn’t have read it.”

“Oh, don’t you fucking start,” he snapped. “Don’t do that calm voice thing like I’m overreacting.”

“You are overreacting.”

He laughed loud, broken. “You wrote about me lying in bed next to me girlfriend.” That landed. Hard. “You wrote about me turning my back on her,” he went on, talking fast now, words tripping over each other. “You wrote about me whispering into my phone so she wouldn’t hear. You even put the fucking rain in. Who does that?”

“Someone who was there,” I said.

“Don’t talk over me,” he barked. “Don’t you fucking talk over me.”

“I’m answering you.”

“No, you’re justifying,” he shot back. “You always do that. You make it sound fucking poetic so you don’t have to admit you crossed a line.”

“You crossed it first!”

“That’s bollocks!”

“You called me,” I said, louder now. “Night after night. You said things you don’t say to someone you’re just ‘coping’ with.”

“I was venting!”

“You were confessing!”

“There’s a difference!”

“Only when you get to walk away from it,” I shouted. My chest felt tight, wrong, like something was expanding too fast inside it.

He ran his hands through his hair, pacing. “You knew I wasn’t leaving her.”

“And you knew I wasn’t nothing,” I fired back. “But you treated me like a place you could fucking disappear into.”

“You make everything so heavy,” he said.

“Because it was heavy,” I snapped. “I carried it, you stupid fucker!”

“You chose to, you stubborn bitch!”

That did it. Something cracked open in my chest, sharp and hot, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe properly. My eyes burned.

“Don’t,” he said immediately. “Don’t cry. Don’t do this now.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” I sobbed. “You don’t get to hurt me and then decide when it’s inconvenient to see it.”

“I didn’t hurt you.”

“You made me feel like I only existed at night,” I cried. “Like I had to vanish in the morning so your real life could continue.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You never mean it,” I said. “That’s the fucking problem.”

He stopped pacing. Stared at me.

“You like being the wounded one,” he said suddenly. “You like turning pain into something you can own.”

The second it came out, his face fell apart.

“Fuck no,” he said immediately. “No. That’s not- that’s not true. That’s a shit thing to say.”

I laughed through my tears, a sound that didn’t belong to me. “Too late.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, fast now, voice shaking. “I’m a cunt. I’m angry and fucked up and I lashed out. I didn’t mean that.”

He stepped toward me, hands already lifting, instinctive.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Come here. Please.”

“Don’t touch me,” I sobbed.

“I just want to-” His voice broke. “I just want to hold you.”

I shoved his hands away, hard, and he recoiled like I’d slapped him.

“Please don’t,” I cried. “If you touch me now, I won’t survive it.”

That did something to him. Something ugly and deep. He made a sound, not a word, not quite, and then he crumpled. Literally. Dropped down, hands fisting in his shirt, breath coming in broken, gasping pulls.

“Fuck,” he sobbed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I’d never seen him cry like that. Not controlled. Not pretty. His face twisted, red, wet, snotty, shoulders shaking like his body was betraying him.

“I’m in love with you,” he choked out.

The words hit the room like a fucking explosion.

“I didn’t mean to be,” he cried. “I tried not to be. I tried to keep it where it was safe and it fucking didn't work.”

I covered my mouth, sobbing harder now. “Don’t say that.”

“I love you,” he repeated, voice wrecked. “And I hate myself for it. I hate what it says about me. About her. About you.”

He looked up at me, eyes ruined, desperate. “Please. Just… just let me hold you. I can’t- I can’t fucking breathe.”

I shook my head violently. “No. No. You don’t get to collapse into me now.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so fucking sorry. I’m an idiot. I ruined everything.”

“You don’t get to love me like this,” I cried. “You don’t get to say it when it costs you nothing and costs me everything.”

“That’s not true,” he said desperately. “It costs me-”

“It doesn’t cost you your life,” I cut in. “It costs me mine.”

He went quiet at that. Just cried, shoulders shaking, face in his hands. I slid down the wall, knees giving out, crying so hard my throat hurt, chest aching like it might cave in.

We stayed like that. Not touching. Both broken.

Finally, he spoke again, barely audible. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” I whispered. And that was the cruelest part. “You’re a fucking coward, Dom. You’re an idiot, and you’re selfish, and you’ve ruined every part of me. Do you have any idea how much you mean to me? How much I hate that you’re the only thing I want? You’re so stupid. You’re so incredibly, painfully stupid!”

"I love you!" he shouted back, suddenly standing, his frustration boiling over. He slammed his hand against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot. He looked like he was vibrating, like he couldn’t hold himself together for another second. Maybe he loves me, and he’s slamming things around because he knows he can’t hold himself back from me.

I look at him. He’s still crying. His hands are shaking. He looks like he might fall apart if I say another word.

But I do.

I lean forward, my hands on my knees, and I say it. Low. Mean.

"You think love is a feeling?" I ask. "You think it's this pretty, painful thing you get to have in the dark? That's not love, Dom. That's a fucking hobby."

He flinches. "Don't."

"No, you listen," I say, my own tears hot on my face. "Love is what you do in the morning. Love is the boring, stupid, daily shit of choosing someone over and over. Love is when you tell the truth even when it costs you something. Love is not whispering into a phone in the middle of the night. That's cowardice."

"I'm not a coward."

"You are," I snarl. "You're the biggest fucking coward I've ever met. You'd rather live two lives than have one that's real. Because if it's real, it might fail. And you can't stand to fail."

He scrubs at his face with the back of his hand, but it doesn't help. He's a mess.

"You don't get to have me both ways," I say. " You don't get to be the good guy and the tortured soul at the same fucking time."

"I never said- "

"You didn't have to," I cut in. "It was in every message you sent. Every call you made. Every half-truth you told yourself so you could sleep at night."

"I was trying to protect you," he whispers.

"Bullshit," I shoot back. "You were trying to protect yourself. Don't you dare dress it up like it was for me. You were keeping me tucked away so you wouldn't have to deal with what I actually mean to you."

I stand up, my legs shaking. The room spins. I grab the back of the sofa to steady myself.

"Look at me," I say. "Look at what you did."

He looks. His face is a ruin. His eyes are red-rimmed and wild.

"I love you," he says again. Desperate.

"And I hate you," I say, and the words taste like blood. "I hate you for making me love someone who would never choose me."

And that's it.

That's the thing that breaks him completely.

He stands up too, stumbling, and for a second I think he's coming toward me. But he's not. He turns, and he walks to the kitchen. I hear the clatter of a pan. Then another. Then something slams against the wall so hard I jump.

"Fuck!" he screams. "FUCK!"

I don't move. I just stand there, listening to him fall apart.

This is him, I think. This is the real him. Not the gentle one who whispered down the phone. Not the tender one who touched me like I was precious. This is him, angry and broken and unable to hold himself together.

And for some reason, that's the part I love most.

The crash of metal against the wall echoes. Silence follows. Not the clean kind, but a thick, humming space filled with everything we haven't managed to say right.

Then, footsteps. Not away. Toward.

He stops in the doorway, a wild, dishevelled figure. Hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. Eyes puffy and red, swimming with something that looks too much like defeat. His hands are shaking, just slightly.

"I can't," he says. Voice rough, like he's been chewing on gravel. "I can't hold it."

"Then don't. Do you think I give a shit if you do?”

And he just… breaks. The last bit of tension goes out of him, like a snapped string. He stumbles forward, and this time, when he reaches for me, I don't push him away.

His hands land on my waist. His fingers dig in, desperate. He buries his face in my hair, and I can feel the damp heat of his tears against it.

His body trembles against mine. Not sobbing now. Just… shaking. Like he's coming apart at the seams, and I'm the only thing holding him together.

He smells like sweat and regret. He smells like a contradiction.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."

And I hate myself for it. I really, truly hate myself for it, but I wind my arms around him. I pull him closer, until there's no space left between us.

My chin rests on his shoulder. I can feel the frantic beat of his heart against my chest. Too fast. Too wild.

He doesn't say anything else. He just holds on. His hands move from my waist to my back, flattening against me, like he's trying to absorb me into himself.

I close my eyes. I can feel the wetness on his cheek seeping through the shoulder of my shirt. It's warm.

"You're so stupid," I whisper into his ear. "You're the stupidest man I've ever met."

A choked sound escapes him. A half-laugh, half-sob.

"I know," he breathes against my neck. "I know."

His grip tightens. His body molds against mine. Like he's trying to anchor himself. Like, if he lets go, he'll float away into nothingness.

And I hold him back. I hold on just as tight.

Because I'm stupid, too.

Because, even after all of it, this is where I want to be.

He pulls back, just enough to look at me. His face is a mess. A beautiful, heartbreaking mess. His thumb comes up, wipes a tear from my cheek. His touch is so gentle it hurts.

And then he kisses me.

A desperate press of lips that tastes of tears and desperation. We are throwing everything around, crashing into each other. I kiss him back like I’m desperate, knowing that after this, I might lose him forever.

For a second, I freeze. My mind screams at me to stop. To push him away. To remember the girlfriend. The lies. The half-life he's offered me.

But my body doesn't listen.

My body remembers. It remembers the weight of him. The taste of him. The way he fits against me like a missing piece.

And so I kiss him back.

I pour everything into it. All the anger. All the hurt. All the aching want I've been trying to smother for months. My hands are in his hair, pulling, holding him to me. I'm not just kissing him; I'm devouring him. Like if I consume him completely, I can finally have him.

He breaks away from my mouth, panting, our breaths mingling in the tiny space between us. His forehead rests against mine.

"I love you," he gasps, the words ragged and torn. "More than anythin', you hear me? More than anythin'."

His accent is thick now, the vowels stretching and melting into each other like a raw, Northern tongue stripped of all its usual polish. The gentility he wears like a coat is gone, incinerated in the heat of our fight.

"I don't care," he chokes out, pressing his lips to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my eye. "I don't care about the fuckin' writing. I don't care. Let 'em read it. I don't care."

And then there are no more words. Only action.

His hands, strong and shaking, grip my waist. In one swift, desperate movement, he lifts me. My feet leave the floor, and I let out a startled cry against his mouth. The world tilts. My back hits the hard, cold surface of the kitchen table. The jars and pens rattled by my laptop jump and skitter. One of them falls to the floor with a sharp crack.

He doesn't notice.

His hands are on my clothes. Not undoing buttons. Not unzipping. Tearing. The sound of fabric ripping is loud in the sudden, desperate silence. My t-shirt gives way with a sickening lurch. My jeans follow, the tough denim splitting at the seam.

He's frantic. Possessed. Like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin and into mine.

I feel him, hard and insistent against me, even through the layers of remaining fabric. He's all-consuming need, all desperate hunger. But he's also broken. His movements are jerky, haunted. Every touch is laced with the ghost of the fight, with the trauma of our words hanging in the air. He's trying to fuck away the pain, to erase the words with action, to prove with his body what he couldn't with his words.

And I let him.

Because I'm just as broken. Just as desperate.

I arch up against him, my own hands tearing at his shirt, needing to feel his skin. Needing to feel the frantic beat of his heart against my palm.

This isn't love.

This is a war.

And we are both losing.

His skin is hot to the touch, slick with a sheen of sweat that tastes like panic. I get his shirt over his head, the fabric catching on his ears, and for a second we're tangled, awkward, a clumsy mess. He wrenches it free, flinging it away, and then his bare chest is against mine. The rough hair on his pecs scrapes against my nipples, a harsh, grounding sensation in the chaos.

His mouth finds mine again, and this kiss is different. Deeper. Slower. It’s not a collision anymore; it’s a drowning. He’s trying to crawl down my throat, to inhabit me completely. His hips rock against me, a steady, punishing rhythm that speaks of nothing but need.

"Dom," I gasp, breaking away, my head hitting the hard wood of the table with a dull thud. "Dom, slow down."

He can't. He's too far gone. His head is buried in the crook of my neck, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering pants. He's mouthing words against my skin, but they're fragmented, broken. "Love… you… fuck… please…"

My hands are in his hair, holding on tight. I'm not guiding him. I'm just holding on for the ride.

His hands slide down my body, rough and sure, and then he's tearing at the last scraps of my underwear. The elastic snaps against my hip, a sharp, stinging bite. Then there's nothing. Just me, bare and exposed on the table, under the kitchen light.

He pulls back, just for a second. His eyes scan my body, dark and wild. They look like they belong to a stranger. Like he's seeing me for the first time, and the sight of me is breaking him all over again.

"God," he chokes out. "Jesus, fuck, baby.”

And then he's on me again.

His mouth, hot and wet, closes over my breast. His tongue swirls around my nipple, a flicker of fire in the wreckage. I gasp, my back arching off the table, my body responding to a touch it knows so well, even as my mind screams at me to stop.

This is a mistake.

This is the end of everything.

But it feels like the only thing that's ever been real.

His hands are everywhere, tracing the lines of my body like he's trying to memorize them. Like he's afraid he'll forget. His touch is worshipful and destructive, all at once. He's mapping a territory he knows he'll have to abandon, a land he's claimed in a war he's already lost.

I reach for the button on his jeans, my fingers fumbling, clumsy. He helps me, his hands covering mine, and the sound of his zipper coming down is the loudest thing I've ever heard.

It's the sound of a point of no return.

He shoves his jeans down, and the movement is angry, violent. He kicks them away, his foot connecting with a chair leg. The chair screeches against the floor. The sound is ugly, jarring.

"I hate this," he grits out, the words muffled against my skin. "I fuckin' hate what we do to each other."

My hands are on his shoulders, my nails digging in. I can feel the tension coiled in his muscles, the way he's holding himself back, even as he's about to break completely.

"Then stop," I whisper, but it's a lie. I don't want him to stop.

He looks at me then, really looks at me. His eyes look injected with a pain so deep it makes my chest ache.

"Can't," he chokes out. "I can't ever stop."

He slams his cock into me, a brutal, unforgiving thrust that rips a cry from my throat. The force of it pushes me up the table, my head hitting the wood again. My laptop, the one with the story that started this all, goes flying. It hits the floor with a sickening crunch. Papers flutter down like dying birds. Everything is being thrown off the table.

He does notice.

He doesn't care.

He just starts to move. A hard, punishing rhythm that's meant to erase everything. The words. The lies. The girlfriend. The space between us. He's trying to fuck me into oblivion, to fuck himself into a state of grace.

"I'm sorry," I gasp out, the words torn from me with every thrust. "I'm so sorry, Dom."

"No," he growls, his hands gripping my hips, holding me in place. "Don't. Don't you dare."

"I love you," he pants, the words a raw, ragged sound. "I love you, you stupid, beautiful, stubborn bitch. I love you so much."

My legs wrap around him, pulling him deeper. I meet him thrust for thrust, my body a willing participant in this beautiful, terrible dance. We're not making love. We're not having sex.

We're waging war.

And in the wreckage of our bodies, in the chaotic storm of our desire, we might just find a way to be at peace. His grinding rhythm feels like he's trying to crawl all the way inside me. Each thrust is a question. Each withdrawal is an apology.

Are you here?

I'm sorry.

Can you feel me?

I'm so sorry.

My hands are on his back, my nails digging into his skin, leaving moon crescents in their wake. I'm holding on so tight I'm afraid I'll break him. Or maybe I'm afraid I'll break myself.

He picks up the pace, his movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. The table is rocking against the floor, a percussive beat that mirrors the frantic rhythm of our hearts. He's fucking me like he's trying to exorcise a demon. Like he's trying to fuck the memory of everything that hurts out of his system.

And I'm letting him.

Because I'm trying to do the same.

We kiss again and again. He breaks away, his forehead resting against mine, his body never ceasing its relentless rhythm.

"Don't let this end," he begs, his voice a raw, broken thing. "Please, God, don't let this be the end. I'm fucked," he sobs, the tears mixing with the sweat on his face. "I'm fucked for life. I don't want to love anyone ever again. I can't. Not after this. Not after you."

His words are a knife twisting in my gut. A promise of abandonment delivered in the heat of the moment.

"Dom, stop," I cry, the tears I've been trying to hold back finally breaking free. "You're hurting me."

"I know, baby,” he chokes out, his pace quickening, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

The tears are a hot, relentless flood. They're for me. They're for him. They're for the beautiful, terrible thing we've just destroyed. And then there's a different kind of wetness, a rush of warmth that starts deep inside me and spills out, gushing on his cock, coating him, slicking our frantic, brutal joining.

He feels it. I know he does. His breath hitches, a ragged sound. He shudders, a full-body tremor that runs through him and into me.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, baby, I can feel you."

"I know," I sob. “I know, Dom…”

"Let 'em read it," he growls, his voice raw with a new kind of desperation. "I don't give a fuck. Let the whole world read it. Let 'em see. Let 'em know."

He's fucking me harder now, chasing something he can't name, chasing the oblivion he thinks is waiting for him on the other side of this.

“i don’t fucking care”, he repeats.

But I do. I care so much it's tearing me apart.

My hands come up to cup his face, my thumbs gently wiping away the salty tracks of his tears. I lean up and press my lips to his damp cheeks, kissing away the tears. He looks at me with so much hurt and love.

"I can't let you go," he whispers, the words barely audible. "I try, and I bloody can't."

"I know," I sob, my own tears mingling with his. "I can't let you go either. I love you so much."

"I love you so much," he says, the words a raw, open wound. "It's the only thing I know for sure."

"I love you," I whisper back, the admission a relief and a condemnation all at once.

With a guttural sound, he pulls out of me and lifts me off the table. My legs are weak, trembling, and I stumble as he pulls me toward the bedroom door. He doesn't give me a chance to find my footing. He slams me against the door, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs.

His face is in my neck, his body pressing mine into the unyielding surface of the door.

"I love you," I gasp, my hands tangling in his hair. "I love you so much, you stupid, fucking idiot."

He pulls back, and there's a wild, desperate look in his eyes. He pushes down on my shoulders, a silent command. I sink to my knees, the floorboards hard and unforgiving.

I look up at him, at the beautiful, broken man standing over me. His cock is hard and flushed, full of the evidence of my desire. I reach for him, my hand wrapping around the solid heat of him.

"I'm going to miss this," I whisper, my lips brushing against the head of him while I go down on him. "I'm going to miss you so much."

And then I take his dick in my wet mouth. He's hot on my tongue. I close my lips around him, sucking him deep. I worship him with my mouth, my hands on his hips.

"You're a fucking idiot," I murmur, pulling back for a second, my lips swollen and wet. "You're the most beautiful idiot I've ever seen, and I'm going to miss this body more than anything." I call him degrading names, telling him he's an idiot, but I don’t even believe myself. All I want is to worship his body. Adore him.

"Fuck," he gasps, his head falling back, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Your mouth… Jesus, your mouth."

Then I wrap my lips around him, my tongue swirling around the head, tasting him. I love it. I love the weight of him on my tongue, the feel of him filling me up.

"Stop," he grits out, his hand tightening in my hair. "Stop fucking thinking and just take it."

And I do. I let him use my mouth, let him set the pace, let him fuck my face with a desperate, aching need that's both beautiful and terrifying. I take him all the way in, my nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base, the head of his cock lodged deep in my throat. I can feel him throbbing, pulsing, a living, breathing thing that's a part of me now.

"Look at you," he pants, his movements becoming more erratic, more frantic.

He pulls back, giving me a chance to breathe, a single, stringy line of saliva connecting my lips to his cock. His spit lands on my tongue, and I accept it without hesitation, my eyes locked on his.

"My dirty fucking angel," his growl a perfect, beautiful mess of worship and degradation. "Look at you. So fucking pretty with my cock in yer mouth."

I moan around him, the sound a muffled, desperate thing. I am obsessed. I know I am. He can see it in my eyes, the need, the way I worship him with my mouth, my hands on his thighs, my entire being focused on him, on this.

"Take it," he commands, and I do, taking him deep again, my throat opening for him, a willing vessel for his pleasure. "That's it, angel. Take it all. Fucking choke on it."

He starts to move again, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's designed to push my limits, to test the boundaries of our shared trust. I can feel my eyes watering, the tears streaming down my face, but I don't care. I want it. I want all of it.

He pulls out again, and I gasp for air, my chest heaving, my throat raw. He's looking down at me, his expression a mix of awe and adoration.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he whispers, his thumb gently stroking my cheek, wiping away a tear. "My beautiful, broken angel."

And then he's back in my mouth, the gentleness gone, replaced by a desperate, frantic need. He's fucking my face now, chasing his release, using my mouth for his pleasure, and I let him. I trust him. I trust him with my body, with my breath, with my very soul.

"Such a good girl," he pants, his movements becoming more erratic, his control starting to slip. The words are crude but I hear the love in them. I hear the desperation, the adoration, the emotion that he can only express in this way, in the heat of this moment, with my lips wrapped around his cock.

He lets out a choked sound, his hands tangling in my hair once again, holding me in place. But he won't let me finish. He pulls away, yanking me to my feet. Before I can process it, he's lifting me again, my back hitting the door with a thud.

Then he lowers me to the floor, my body sliding down the smooth wood of the door until I'm sitting, my legs spread wide, open to him. He looks at me with hunger.

And then he puts his mouth on me. He’s going to eat me out right there on the door.

It's not gentle. It's not slow.

His tongue is hot and insistent, flicking against my clit. His hands grip my thighs, holding me open. He devours me, his mouth and tongue working in a frantic rhythm. My head falls back against the door with a dull thud. My hands are in his hair.

"This is what I'm going to miss," I sob, my hands fisting in his hair. "This. Your mouth on me. This body. This is the only home I've ever known. You've ruined it for me, you hear me? You've ruined all men for the rest of my life. No one will ever feel like this. No one will ever know me like you do."

He pulls back, just for a second. His face is wet, shining with me.

"No one else," he growls, the words a raw, ragged sound. "No one else is ever this responsive for me. No one else falls apart under my tongue like you do. No one else tastes like this. You've ruined me, too. You've ruined me for anyone else."

And then he dives back in.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs against me, the vibration sending the pleasure all over me. "That's it. Come for me. I want to taste it. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue."

"Dom," I gasp, my body arching off the door. "Dom, Dom, Dom…"

His name is forever my favorite prayer. It's the only word I know anymore.

"Cum for me, baby," he urges, his tongue never ceasing its relentless assault. "Let go. I've got you. I'll always catch you."

"Dare to swear it," I gasp, my hands tightening in his hair, my body trembling on the precipice. "Look at me. Right now. Look in my eyes and dare to lie to me. Swear it. Swear you'll always catch me, you dirty motherfucker. Swear it."

He pulls back, his face inches from mine. His eyes are dark, intense, filled with a love and a pain so deep it takes my breath away.

"I swear it," he says, his voice low, steady, a vow spoken in the ruins of our shared world. "I swear on everything I am, everything I'll ever be. I'm yours. I'm so fucking yours it's killing me. I'm dead serious about it."

And as he speaks, he slides two fingers inside me, curling them upward.The combination of his words, his touch, the raw obscene certainty in his eyes, is too much.

The wave breaks and I cry out his name, my back arching off the door as the pleasure crashes over me in a relentless, all-consuming flood. I'm shaking, trembling, my entire world narrowing to the feel of him, the taste of him, the sound of his name on my lips.

He doesn't stop. He keeps his fingers inside me, his tongue on my clit, drawing out my orgasm, until I'm a quivering mess in his arms.

And then he gently withdraws his fingers, his tongue giving me one last, lingering lick before he pulls away.

He looks up at me, his face wet with my release and his own tears.

"I meant it," he says, his voice soft but firm. "Every word."

My legs are useless. Utterly. They're boneless, trembling things that refuse to hold my weight. I try to push myself up from the floor, but my arms shake and I collapse back against the door with a soft thud.

He doesn't laugh. He doesn't say a word.

He just moves.

In one fluid motion, he's on his feet, scooping me into his arms. My head falls against his chest, my ear pressed against the frantic, steady beat of his heart. I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of him sweat and sex and something so Dom. It's a smell that's been my undoing, my salvation, my entire goddamn world for as long as I can remember.

He carries me to the bed, his movements surprisingly gentle for a man who just fucked me against a door. He lays me down on the rumpled sheets, my body sinking into the mattress with a soft sigh.

He's over me in an instant, his body covering mine, a familiar, welcome weight. He's still hard, still needy, and he positions himself at my entrance, pausing for a second, his eyes searching mine.

"I'm gonna get us a house," he says, the words a raw, ragged promise. "Somewhere no one knows us. Somewhere with a garden and a view and a leaky tap I'll never fix. I'm gonna get a house and I'm gonna move you into it."

He slides into me then, a slow, deliberate thrust that fills me completely.

"I'm gonna run away with you," he pants, his rhythm slow, deep, a contrast to the frantic, desperate coupling from before. "We're gonna leave all this shit behind. The city, the noise. Baby, we’re just gonna go. You and me.”

He starts to move, a steady, deep rocking motion that's less about chasing release and more about forging a connection, about sealing a promise made in the heat of a desperate moment.

"Say you'll come with me," he begs, his forehead resting against mine. "Say you'll run away with me."

I can't speak. I can only nod, my hands coming up to cup his face, my thumbs stroking the stubble on his cheeks.

"Say it," he insists, his thrusts becoming a little harder, a little more insistent.

"Yes," I whisper, the word a vow. "Yes, I'll run away with you."

And as he continues to move inside me, a slow, steady rhythm that feels like home, I let myself believe him. I let myself believe in the house, the garden, the leaky tap. I let myself believe in a future where it's just us.

Because in this room, on this bed, with this man inside me, it's the only truth I know.

He stops moving and he pulls back, just enough to look at me. Really look at me. His eyes are clear, the wild, desperate panic replaced by a grim, unwavering certainty.

"I'm not joking," he says, his voice low, steady, in contrast to the raw emotion of moments before. "I'm not fucking with you. I don't care about the text. I don't care about my career. I don't care about any of it."

He starts to move again slower.

"I'll walk away from it all," he pants, his eyes locked on mine. "The job, the life, the whole fucking package. I'll walk away and I won't look back. Because none of it means anything without you."

His words are a shock, a jolt of ice-cold reality in the heat of our shared passion. This isn't just pillow talk. This isn't a desperate promise made in the throes of passion.

"I'm serious," he insists, as if reading the doubt in my eyes. "Dead fucking serious. I'd rather have nothing with you than bloody everything without you."

And I see it then. The truth. The terrifying, exhilarating, beautiful truth. He's not just saying it. He means it.

And I'm terrified.

"Dom," I whisper, my hands on his chest, trying to slow him, to make him understand. "You don't mean that."

"I do," he growls, his pace quickening, his body trying to convince me where his words alone might fail. "I've never meant anything more in my entire life."

A choked sound escapes me, a raw, wounded noise. "No," I sob, shaking my head, the tears blurring his face into a watercolor of regret and desire. "No, you can't. You won't."

"I can," he insists, his rhythm never faltering. "And I am."

He leans down, his lips gentle against my wet cheeks, kissing away the tears that won't stop falling. It's a tender gesture in the midst of a brutal reality, and it breaks me all over again.

"Don't say no," he whispers, his breath warm against my skin. "Your body's saying yes. I can feel it. You can lie to me, you can lie to yourself, but you can't lie to this."

He punctuates his words with a deep thrust that makes my entire body clench, wave of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. A gasp tears from my throat, a sound that has nothing to do with denial.

"See?" he murmurs, a triumphant, sorrowful sound. "She knows. Your body knows. She loves me. She belongs to me."

And he's right.

My mind is a battlefield, a war of logic and consequence, of what's right and what's practical. But my body… my body is a traitor. It arches against him, my hips rising to meet his, my legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. My cunt clenches around him, a greedy, possessive grip that screams yes, yes, yes.

He's right. My body loves him. It's been in love with him since the first touch, the first kiss. It recognizes him, claims him, surrenders to him in a way my mind never has, never could.

"Say you want this," he pants, his forehead pressed against mine, our bodies moving in a perfect, punishing rhythm. "Say you want me."

My fingers dig into his shoulders, more violent this time. I'm no longer a passive participant in this, this beautiful, terrible surrender. I'm an active, willing participant. I just fucking know it.

“I want you, Dom.”

With a strength I didn't know I possessed, I roll us over, straddling him, my knees on either side of his hips. He's surprised, I can see it in his eyes, but he lets me take control, his hands coming to rest on my waist, guiding me as I start to move.

And then something shifts. A wild, reckless energy takes hold. I'm not just fucking him anymore. I'm fucking our old life. I'm fucking the lies, the half-truths, the cowardly compromises that have defined our relationship from the start.

My hand shoots out, knocking a lamp off the bedside table. It shatters on the floor, the sound sharp and satisfying.

"Won't need that," I pant, my movements becoming more erratic, more desperate.

He understands. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his face, a mirror to my own reckless abandon.

"Guess not," he growls, his hands tightening on my hips, his own thrusts becoming more powerful, more demanding.

We're a whirlwind of motion, a tangle of bodies, a destructive force unleashed in the small confines of the room. I knock over a stack of books, sending them skittering across the floor. He swipes a vase off the dresser, and it too shatters, a spray of glass and water.

"We don't need any of it," I sob, my head thrown back, my body riding his in a frantic, desperate rhythm. "We don't need any of this shit."

"Just this," he agrees, his hands cupping my breasts, his thumbs brushing against my nipples, sending waves of pleasure straight to my core. "Just us."

He sits up, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me against him as he continues to drive into me. He stands, lifting me with him, my legs still wrapped around his waist. He walks us toward the window, the cool glass a shock against my heated skin.

The city lights spread out before us, a glittering, indifferent panorama. We're in a fishbowl, a spectacle for anyone who cares to look, but yet in this moment, we're the only two people in the world.

He presses me against the window, the cold glass seeping into my back, everything a contradiction to the heat of his body and the fire of his possession.

His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming shorter, more erratic. I can feel the tension coiling in him, the frantic energy building to a crescendo. He's close.

"Look at me," I demand, my hands cupping his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. "Don't you dare look away. Not now."

His eyes lock on mine, and the emotion I see there is enough to take my breath away. It's love, it's pain, it's desperation, it's a soul-baring vulnerability that he's only ever shown to me.

"Your body," I whisper, my lips brushing against his. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. So strong. So perfect."

He lets out a choked sound, a strangled gasp, and I know he's right there, on the brink.

"But your heart," I continue, my thumb stroking his cheek. "It's even more beautiful. So fucked up and so good. It's the best part of you. And it's mine."

With a raw, guttural cry, he buries his face in my neck, his body shuddering as he spills his come into me. I can feel the pulse of him, the hot, rhythmic rush of his release, a primal claiming that marks me as his in the most undeniable way.

I hold him, my arms wrapped around his trembling body, my own tears mingling with the sweat on his skin. The city lights blur behind us, a kaleidoscope of colors that can't compete with the devastating explosion of emotion between us.

We stay like that for a long time, our bodies pressed together, our hearts beating together. The world outside continues to turn. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t have the fucking answers… but for now I don’t even need them.

"I've got you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "I've got you, my angel."

And for the first time, I believe him.