84. Proper

Ghost's Flat, North London – 19:49

"Simon?"

I hadn't meant to say it. Not really. But it slipped out—quiet as breath, soft as bone ash. Barely more than a whisper into the dim bedroom air, into the weight of clean sheets and silence that wasn't empty.

For a moment, nothing. Just the muffled hush of the city outside. The distant hum of traffic through glass. My own heartbeat somewhere in my throat.

And then—

The creak of the floorboards in the hall.

A shift in the air.

The doorknob turned.

He didn't speak when he opened the door. Didn't ask what was wrong, or why I'd called for him. He just stood in the frame for a beat, eyes half-lost in shadow, the light from the kitchen behind him casting long lines along his shoulders.

I sat up slowly. The sheet rustled against my skin.

He didn't move. Didn't fill the silence. Just waited.

So I stood. Feet to floor. Breath catching a little.

He looked at me the way he always did—like I was something fragile and dangerous at the same time. Like if he touched too soon, I'd either shatter or bite.

"What is it?" he asked, voice low. Gravel-coated.

I hesitated. Then—"Can you... stay?"

A pause.

His gaze searched mine. Not sharply. Carefully. Like he was giving me a chance to take it back. When I didn't, he stepped in. Closed the door behind him.

The click of it landing shut echoed louder than it should have.

We stood there for a long second. The air between us thick and close and full of everything we hadn't said.

Then I reached for the edge of the shirt I wore—his shirt.

Fingers curling in the fabric near the hem, pulling gently, then slowly moving toward the sleeve. Toward the seam that had torn once before. Toward what had once been a blindfold.

His hand shot out before I could go further. Fingers closing gently, but firmly, around my wrist.

"No."

Just that. Quiet. Certain.

I met his eyes, searching for explanation, but he was already stepping closer.

"You don't have to blindfold yourself anymore," he said. "Not anymore."

I didn't speak. Couldn't. Just lifted my arms slowly. Up. Gentle. Careful. My hands came to the edge of his balaclava.

And I waited.

His breath caught—almost imperceptibly—but he didn't stop me. Didn't flinch. Didn't retreat.

I pushed the fabric up—inch by inch—revealing only the lower half of his face. The line of his jaw. His mouth. The curve of a scar near the corner. The shadows under his cheekbones.

His lips parted slightly, the faintest tremble in the breath he took.

I stepped closer. Tip of my nose brushing his. And then I kissed him. Soft. Intentional. No hesitation. No heat. Just contact. The kind we'd almost never had without something between us. Not fully.

He responded like he always did—slow, steady, patient. Like the world outside didn't matter. Like time had thinned itself to this single thread of moment and touch. His hands settled at my waist. Careful. Reverent.

When we broke apart, I didn't step back.

And neither did he.

"I told you, didn't I?" he said, voice low and warm against my mouth.

I blinked.

"What?"

He leaned in—barely.

"Want you proper, love." he murmured, a memory returned.

Then—his mouth at my throat.

"And this—" kiss "—this is what proper looks like." kiss.

I exhaled shakily. My hands curled at his shoulders, clutching soft cotton, grounding myself in the heat of him, the solidity, the quiet restraint just barely holding something bigger at bay.

He wasn't rushing. Wasn't pulling. He was waiting. Letting me decide.

I leaned forward, lips brushing his jaw.

"And if I want this too?"

A soft hum from deep in his chest. One of his hands came up—palm to my cheek. Warm and calloused and careful.

"Then I'm not lettin' you go till you remember what this means."

My chest clenched.

"What does this mean?"

His eyes burned into mine. Calm. Fierce.

"That you're safe. That I'm here. That no one else touches you like this. That you're mine, and I'm yours."

I nodded. Once. Sharp. Real.

And he kissed me again. Not with hunger. Not with force. But with something deeper—older. A vow, made flesh.

His mouth moved slow against mine, deliberate and sure. The kind of kiss that didn't ask, didn't take. It offered. And waited. It gave me room to breathe—and then stole that breath gently, like it had always belonged to him.

I leaned in, hands at his shoulders, letting my fingers gather the fabric of his shirt. Ghost didn't flinch. Didn't shift. He just kept kissing me like it was the only thing anchoring us to the present—like if he stopped, we might both vanish into the past.

My spine arched slightly when his hands—broad, warm—slid up my back. No rush. Just the slow drag of his fingers across cotton, finding the bare space between hem and skin, and resting there. Not claiming. Not caging. Just holding. His thumbs traced the ridges of my spine like a blind man learning the shape of something sacred.

And still—he kissed me. Not like a soldier. Not like a ghost. But like a man.

When I pulled back, just barely, I rested my forehead against his. Our noses brushed. His breath was warm across my cheek.

"Still okay?" he murmured, voice like gravel over silk.

I nodded.

He tilted his head, lips ghosting mine. "Say it."

"I'm okay," I whispered. "I want this."

That was all he needed.

He kissed me again—deeper this time. Slower. Like he meant to memorize the shape of my mouth, the way I tilted toward him, the small sounds I didn't know I made. His tongue parted my lips gently. Not demanding. Just asking.

And I let him in.

The kiss deepened—like dusk falling over a city. Slow. Inevitable. And when he finally growled softly against my mouth, something low in his chest, it nearly undid me. I felt it down my spine. I felt it everywhere.

His hands cupped my jaw, framing my face like I was something worth holding steady. His thumbs brushed under my cheekbones. My own hands slid up, under the hem of his shirt, over the warm planes of his back.

God—he was so solid. So real.

"Simon..." I breathed against his lips.

He kissed me again before answering. "I've got you."

One of his hands moved to the back of my neck, cradling it. The other slid low—fingers splaying across my hip, steady and anchoring. He walked me back slowly, one step at a time. Our mouths never parting. My bare feet ghosted against the edge of the bed, but not quite touching it. Keeping distance.

He didn't push. He just paused.

I looked up at him, and he looked at me—really looked.

That dark gaze of his wasn't guarded now. It wasn't walled off. It was open, just enough, and I saw it there—need, yes, but something quieter beneath it. Something vulnerable. Something afraid this wasn't real.

So I took his masked face in my hands. Pressed my mouth to his. Slower now. Even slower. And kissed him like I meant it. Like I was the one anchoring him, too.

"I'm here." I whispered between kisses.

He inhaled sharply. Then pulled me in harder, mouth crashing against mine in a way that told me I'd hit something vital.

The heat sparked instantly—low and pulsing. But still, he wasn't rushing. Simon Riley didn't rush. He lingered. He devoured without overwhelming. Every movement was precise. Intentional.

He kissed me until my knees wobbled. Until my hands were buried in his shirt, gripping it like it could hold me upright.

When I gasped a little—breath catching—he leaned back enough to murmur against my lips, "Bed?"

I nodded, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted.

But instead of turning me, instead of guiding me down, he kissed me again—this time slower, lazier. Like he wasn't done yet. His hands found my waist and slid under the shirt. Bare skin to calloused palms.

I shivered. But not from cold. From the way he touched me like he'd been starving quietly for years.

Still kissing, still close, he walked me backward again. This time when my legs did hit the bed, I felt the dip of the mattress behind my knees. He bent slightly, one hand lowering to catch behind my thigh, and lifted just enough to guide me up.

I sank onto the edge of the mattress, breath caught in my throat.

He didn't follow. Not yet.

He knelt.

Ghost. Knelt.

His hands slid up the outside of my thighs, eyes watching mine the whole way. His mouth still slightly open, breaths uneven. He rested his head against my stomach, arms wrapped around my hips, just holding.

My fingers curled in his hair, at the edge of his balaclava. Damp from the shower. Soft.

Neither of us spoke for a beat.

And then—slowly—he tilted his head back. Looked up at me from where he knelt.

"If you want me to stop—"

"I don't." I said, voice a little hoarse.

He held my gaze for a beat longer. And then his hands—strong, steady—guided me themself lower with impossible gentleness. Not like glass. Like something precious. Like something his hands had always been meant to hold. Like he'd thought about it too many times and was finally allowing himself the reality.

The mattress dipped beneath my weight. Cool sheets against the warm press of my back. I could still smell him on the pillow. Soap, mint, faint trace of gun oil.

His eyes dragged over me—soft at first. Then darker. Focused. Taking in everything I offered, but never demanding more than I gave. And I gave him everything.

I didn't look away. Neither did he.

I found the hem of the shirt I wore—his shirt—and started lifting it.

He didn't help. He just watched.

And when I bared my chest fully, he exhaled like something in him had come loose.

I hooked my thumbs beneath the edge of my underwear and slid them down slowly, breath catching as I bared myself to him—fully, finally, nothing between us.

His gaze dragged slow over my body, jaw tight, throat bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered under his breath. Then he looked up. "You alright?" Low. Gravel-thick. Quiet in a way that said tell me if you're not and I'll stop everything.

I nodded.

His hand came to my knee. Warm. Solid.

"Say it proper, love."

"I'm okay," I whispered. "I want this."

His breath hitched.

"Ay," he murmured. "Me too."

He leaned in and kissed the inside of my knee. Soft. Intentional.

Then higher.

Each kiss was deliberate. Slower than slow. His mouth moved like it was memorising me, like the heat of my skin might be the only thing keeping him anchored.

When he reached the dip of my thigh, I gasped—and his hand gripped a little tighter. Not rough. Just grounding. His voice was low, muffled against my skin.

"Could die like this, you know. Mouth on you. Skin under me."

A hot rush pulsed through me. I reached for him—hands dragging up his shirt. He let me pull it over his head. His chest was warm beneath my palms, scarred and strong and real.

"You're staring, love." he said, voice softer now.

I blushed.

His hands slid up to my hips. His thumbs brushed under my ribs, holding me like something breakable. Then he dipped lower. Kissed down my stomach, mouth warm and open. Each press sent heat coiling through my core.

I arched slightly, not even thinking about it—and he paused.

"Still good?"

"Yes."

He kissed the spot just above where I burned for him. His breath hitched. Then his voice—low, edged with gravel and restraint.

"I'm gonna ruin you for anyone else."

"You already have."

He groaned—sharp, unsteady—and rested his head against my thigh, just for a second. Gathering himself.

Then he looked up, that Manchester lilt low and rough.

"You want me to stop—say it now."

"I don't."

"Right." A soft nod. "Then let me take my fuckin' time."

And he kissed lower.

He said it like a vow. Low. Rough. Like gravel dragged over silk. Like he meant to carve those words into me — not just with his mouth, but with everything he was. I felt them down to the marrow.

And then his lips were back on me.

Soft. Open-mouthed. Moving lower, but still maddeningly slow. His stubble scraped gently against the inside of my thigh, and I felt the ache build in the space between anticipation and need. My breath caught. My hips shifted just a little, restless against the sheets.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"Easy," he murmured, the words barely a breath against my skin. That accent of his — thick and northern and wrecked with control — made me shiver more than the air ever could. "I'll get there."

His hands slid up, warm palms bracketing my hips, thumbs stroking slow circles along the edges of my ribs. It wasn't just grounding — it was claiming. Careful. Unyielding. A reminder: I was here. He was here. Nothing else mattered.

I looked down at him.

His eyes were locked on me — that sharp, ink-dark stare burning from under the mask. Half of his face still hidden. Only his mouth visible. Only the part of him touching me. The part I'd kissed.

That made it worse. Or better. I couldn't tell.

"I've thought about this," he admitted, voice ragged now, as though each word had to fight to escape. "Too many times."

"Show me." I whispered, surprising myself with the sound of it — small and hoarse, stripped of anything but truth.

His breath hitched. And then he leaned in.

Not rushed. Not ravenous. He kissed the inside of my other thigh first — the side he'd neglected. Evening the scales, like this was something sacred and ritualistic. His stubble dragged slow over bare skin again, the sensation catching sparks in me, lighting them low and deep.

My hips tilted up, just slightly. I couldn't help it.

His hands held me steady.

"Greedy little thing." he muttered, almost fondly.

My laugh broke on a gasp when he pressed another kiss — higher now. His mouth warm. His breath hotter. Every time he got closer, I thought I'd break. But he didn't touch me where I wanted him. Not yet.

Simon Riley truly didn't rush.

"You smell like soap and sleep," he said quietly, mouth brushing against the dip of my pelvis. "Like my fuckin' shirt. My bed. Mine."

My hands curled in the sheets. I couldn't look away.

He kissed across the edge of my hip, open-mouthed, slow, taking his time. Like he was tasting something he never thought he'd be allowed to have.

"Simon—" I breathed.

He looked up at me from between my thighs.

"Yeah, love?"

God.

He wasn't just between my legs. He was settled there like he belonged. Like he could stay there for hours. Days. Like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Need—" I started, then stopped.

Because what I needed didn't fit in a single word. It was the press of his palms, the scrape of his jaw, the way he looked at me like I was the last good thing left in the world. It was this. Him. Now.

He must have seen it in my eyes — the way my breath broke, the tremble in my fingers.

His own voice went soft.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."

And then — finally — his mouth dropped lower.

Not on me. Just another kiss. Then another. Then one right at the crease of my thigh, where the skin turned soft and heat bloomed thick and aching.

I gasped.

His hands gripped my hips tighter.

"That's it," he whispered. "Let me hear you."

His tongue followed the line of the last kiss, slow and deliberate. His mouth warm, wet, reverent.

I felt everything.

Every breath. Every inch. Every heartbeat that thundered through me, each one louder than the last. The room was silent save for that — the quiet sound of lips on skin. The shift of sheets. My own soft, shaky exhale. And him. Always him. Still in his mask. Still careful.

And then his mouth was finally on me.

At first, it was just breath—slow and deliberate. His nose skimmed skin, his stubble rough where I was soft. I shivered.

"Mm," he hummed low, voice rasping against the sensitive crease where leg met hip. "You're already shakin', love."

His tongue finally pressed in—slow, deliberate, maddening. A single, wet stroke that dragged from bottom to top, parting me open like something sacred. I gasped. My hips jerked before I could stop them, and his hands came up immediately—holding me steady, grounding me with the weight of his palms at my waist.

"Easy," he murmured, his mouth just barely lifting from my skin. "I've got you."

And then he devoured me.

Not rushed. Not frantic. But slow. Sinfully slow. Like this was the only thing he ever meant to do. Like he'd mapped this path in his dreams and was finally allowed to make it real. His tongue moved with purpose—slick, strong, coaxing. Learning every response I gave him and cataloging it with frightening precision.

Every moan, every twitch, every broken gasp that slipped from my mouth.

"Simon—" I managed, breathless.

He groaned against me at the sound of his name, the vibration sending another jolt through me. One of his hands slid up, splaying wide over my belly, keeping me pinned. Not to restrain, but to remind.

He was there.

"Fuckin' perfect," he muttered, the gravel in his voice thicker now. "Taste so fuckin' sweet—didn't think I'd ever get this, but here you are..."

I felt every word. Not just the sound of them, but the way they meant something. Like it wasn't just lust or heat or instinct—it was earned. He kissed me like a man making an oath with his mouth.

His tongue circled—then flattened. Long, deliberate strokes. Then a tease. Then deeper again, until I was crying out softly, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other still tangled in his hair. His balaclava was bunched up around his nose, and I could feel the heat of his breath through it when he exhaled hard.

He pulled back for just a moment, lips slick, eyes dark as stormclouds when they met mine.

"Look at you," he rasped. "Fallin' apart already."

"Simon—please—"

That was all he needed.

His mouth returned, tongue flicking now, firmer pressure against where I needed him most. When he sucked, low and slow, I nearly sobbed. My thighs tried to close around his shoulders, but he growled and spread them again—effortless strength.

"Let me," he said. "Let me fuckin' ruin you, yeah?"

I nodded, eyes glassy, spine arching when he locked back in and really started working. No rhythm wasted. No motion without meaning. He was single-minded in it—methodical. Practiced. Like he could listen to my heartbeat and match it.

I felt it building—heat, pressure, a curl deep in my belly.

"Fuck," I breathed. "I'm—I—Simon—"

He didn't stop. He didn't even falter.

Just pulled me closer, mouth unrelenting, until the tension snapped like a tripwire and I shattered against him with a sound that wasn't even a word. My vision whited out for a second, pleasure slamming into me like a wave, like a reckoning.

He held me through it.

Slowed only when my hips trembled, when my cries broke into soft gasps, when my hand fell from his head—boneless and spent.

And still he kissed me there. Once. Twice. A reverent press of mouth to skin, like the end of a prayer.

When he lifted his head, his lips were wet, beard darker with it. And he was smirking. Just a little.

"Proper, yeah?"

I let out a shaky breath. Could barely meet his eyes.

"That was—" My voice cracked.

He leaned over me, one forearm braced beside my head, still knelt on the floor. His face—half-masked, flushed, proud—was all I could see.

"You're mine now," he murmured, and God, that accent—mine now. Low. Manchester. Possessive without threat. Like a fact of nature.

"I always was." I whispered back.

His eyes flared. Then he kissed me—slow and filthy, letting me taste myself on his tongue. Like a promise. Like we were just getting started.

My body was still trembling.

Not from cold. Not from fear. But from the quiet, overwhelming aftershock of what he'd just done to me—what we'd just allowed to happen between us. Every inch of me felt wrung out and worshipped, like I'd been held at the edge of something and coaxed over with nothing but his mouth, his voice, and the unbearable weight of his care.

Simon didn't move at first.

He stayed where he was—kneeling between my legs, forearm resting beside my head, watching me like I might disappear if he blinked. His chest rose and fell slow, steady. Controlled. But his eyes told a different story. Hunger. Reverence. Restraint straining at the edges like frayed thread.

"Still with me?" he asked.

His voice was quieter now. Rough from use. Like he'd burned the edges of it on my skin.

I nodded. Couldn't quite find my words yet.

He reached up and brushed hair from my forehead, fingers warm and a little shaky. Not with hesitation. With something older than that. Something deeper.

His mask was still pushed halfway up—just enough to see his mouth, the curve of his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly as he looked down at me.

My hand found his cheek. I traced the scar at the corner of his mouth with my thumb.

"I'm here." I said, voice soft. Raw.

His throat moved with a swallow. "You sure?"

That again. Always asking. Always giving me the chance to pull back.

"I want you," I whispered. "All of you."

His breath caught. His eyes closed for a second like that hurt and healed at once.

Then— "Alright," he said, the word thick with gravel. "But I'm doin' this slow, love. Proper. Not just some shag in the dark."

"I know."

"You're sure." he said again, and this time, it wasn't a question. It was him double-checking. Triple-checking. Like he couldn't quite believe I was still saying yes.

I lifted myself onto my elbows, my voice steadier this time. "Simon. I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

A small, rough sound escaped him.

Then he stood. Hands bracketing my thighs, rising up to his full height, the shadows of the room shifting around him. For a second, he looked like he always did—like Ghost. Tall. Imposing. Half-masked.

But then he pulled the balaclava off.

He didn't ask permission.

Didn't hesitate.

Just took it in both hands and peeled it off slowly, deliberately, revealing the rest of his face inch by inch. Like this moment—this moment—was what he'd saved that final unveiling for.

I barely breathed.

The angles of him were sharp. A soldier's face. Hard-earned lines. Pale scars that crossed under his cheekbone and toward his jaw. Blonde stubble along his chin. A mouth I'd already memorised by feel. Eyes so dark they looked almost black in the low light—but they softened when they looked at me.

No mask. No helmet. No war.

Just Simon.

"I wanted it to be you," I said quietly, reaching up to touch his cheek again. "The first time I saw you without it."

His jaw flexed under my fingers. "You get every first with me. Every last, too."

"Then come here." I whispered.

And he did.

He leaned down—slow, like he thought the spell might break—and kissed me again. This time it was different. Not just reverence. Not just possession. It was trust.

His weight came down over me, slow and solid. One arm braced above my shoulder, the other sliding behind my back, pulling me up into him like he couldn't bear a gap between us. His bare chest pressed to mine. Skin to skin. Warm and alive and human.

His breath was ragged now, no longer measured. His control slipping, just a little.

He kissed down my jaw, to my throat. Sucked gently at the spot just below my ear until I gasped. Then lower. His mouth followed the line of my collarbone, teeth scraping, tongue smoothing after. My hands dug into his back, fingers dragging down the slope of his shoulders, over every scar I'd never seen but had always known were there.

He shifted above me, his hips pressing gently between mine. Just enough friction to remind us both of what was coming. But he didn't grind. Didn't rush. Instead, he looked down at me again. And waited.

"You ready, love?"

I nodded.

But he shook his head slightly. "Need you to say it."

"I'm ready," I said. "I want you, Simon."

He groaned—low and deep—and kissed me again, long and slow, like that was the key that finally unlocked something he'd kept chained up inside him for years.

When he shifted again, I felt the press of him—hard and hot and barely contained. But still, he held himself back. His hand slid down between us. One last pause.

"Still good?" he murmured, voice almost tender now.

"Yes." I swallowed. "Are you?"

He laughed—just a breath of it. "Ask me that again after."

Then he leaned up slightly, one arm braced beside my head again, and kissed me once—deep and lingering. His other hand slid between us, brushing gently across my stomach, trailing lower.

His jaw flexed, and he pulled back just enough to kneel beside me. I watched as he reached for the waistband of his sweatpants—slow, measured. He hooked his thumbs beneath the fabric, dragging them down over his hips, his thighs, until he stood fully bare in the dim light.

And for a moment—I just looked.

Because this was new. This was real. The full sight of him, unhidden and unmasked. Scarred and solid and warm in the hush of the bedroom. Nothing polished. Nothing performed.

He let me look. Didn't flinch. Didn't pose. Just stood there, chest rising steady, hands at his sides like he'd offered up something unspoken and was waiting to see what I'd do with it.

And God. He was beautiful. Not in the way magazines pretended men should be. In the way storms were beautiful. In the way war-forged steel gleamed in firelight. Raw. Earned. The scars didn't hide him—they revealed him. The pain he'd survived, the strength he carried, the weight of everything he never said out loud.

My throat tightened. I sat up slightly and reached for him.

He came willingly. Climbed over me again—kissing, steadying, the heat of him sinking back into my skin. He was hard against me, thick and hot where he pressed between my thighs. But still, he didn't rush.

"Look at me," he murmured, voice low and rough in my ear. "I want you seein' me. Not just Ghost. Me."

"Simon. I see you, Simon." I whispered.

His mouth met mine again, and this time—finally—he slid one hand low, guided himself to where I was still wet and wanting.

"Ready?"

I nodded, breath ragged.

But he paused again.

"Say it, love."

"I'm ready, Simon."

His jaw clenched. A breath stuttered in his chest. Then—

He moved.

Slow. Careful. God—so careful. Every inch of him was deliberate. Every breath timed with mine. When he entered me, it was like something ancient breaking open—slow and aching and perfect.

I gasped—more from the depth of it than the stretch, but God, that too—and he stilled immediately.

"Breathe, love," he whispered, brushing a kiss to my temple. "You've got me. You're doin' so fuckin' good."

He stayed still for a moment—just letting me adjust, letting me feel all of him. One hand cradled the side of my face. The other kept our hips aligned just right.

And when I exhaled—when my legs wrapped around his waist and I pulled him deeper—he groaned like he was in pain.

"Fuckin' hell..."

Then he started to move.

Slow. Deep. Each thrust a vow. Each slide a promise. It wasn't just sex—it was everything. All the months of waiting. All the tension. The longing. The restraint.

Gone.

Replaced with this.

His mouth never left my skin. He kissed every inch he could reach. Murmured things against my throat. My cheek. My mouth.

"Feel that?" he rasped, voice thick. "That's me. That's all me."

I clung to him, nails digging into his back, and he didn't mind. He welcomed it.

Our rhythm built—not fast, not rough. Just... more. Deeper. Closer.

His hips rolled into mine with steady precision, every thrust deliberate—like he was imprinting himself into me one thrust at a time. Not a single motion wasted. Just heat and tension and unbearable closeness.

"Christ," he growled against my neck. "Takin' me so fuckin' well, love..."

A breathless whimper slipped out of me. I couldn't help it. My thighs curled around his waist instinctively, heels digging into the backs of his legs, needing him closer. Needing him everywhere.

"That's it," he breathed. "Hold on to me."

I did. God, I did.

My fingers clenched the taut muscles across his back, nails scraping into the scars and skin without hesitation. He groaned—not in pain, but in pleasure. A sound torn from somewhere deep and ragged. It vibrated against my throat as he dipped lower, mouth grazing over my collarbone before he kissed just below it.

"You feel that?" he murmured, hips pushing in slow and deep. "How tight you are around me—fuck, you were made for this."

My breath hitched. A moan spilled from my lips, high and helpless.

He smirked against my skin.

"There she is," he said, voice roughened by restraint, accent thickening. "Soundin' so fuckin' sweet for me."

The rhythm quickened—not frenzied, but firmer. More urgent. His hands slipped under my back, arms bracketing me close, and every grind of his hips dragged a helpless sound from my throat.

"Simon—" I gasped.

"Mm." He kissed my jaw. "Say it again."

"Simon," I whimpered, mouth parting as pleasure rippled through me again.

"That's it." His hips pressed in deeper. "Say my fuckin' name when you come, yeah?"

I couldn't answer. My mouth moved, but the words caught in the back of my throat, lost under the weight of every breath and moan and jolt of sensation. He filled me completely—every inch a reminder that this wasn't a dream. That this was him, here, now, undone and still so goddamn in control.

"Fuck, you feel like heaven," he muttered against my cheek, the heat of his breath igniting sparks under my skin. "So warm—so tight. Could stay buried in you all night."

His pelvis rocked against mine again and again, and my moans climbed higher, pulse thrumming wild beneath my ribs.

One of his hands slid between us—his fingers finding the place I needed them most, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that made my spine arch off the bed.

"Simon—" I gasped again, voice trembling.

"I've got you." His mouth ghosted over mine. "Let go for me, yeah?"

Another thrust. Another swirl of his fingers. Another kiss, deeper now—possessive and reverent all at once. The pressure inside me built like a rising tide, stealing my breath, flooding every nerve with molten heat.

And then—

"Come on, sweetheart," he groaned. "Show me how it feels. Let me have it."

His voice—Christ, his voice. That thick, northern gravel, low and wrecked and so fucking sure of me—of us. Of the way I broke apart for him.

I shattered.

My legs locked tight around him. My hands fisted in his hair and shoulders. I sobbed his name as the orgasm ripped through me—bright and brutal and endless.

He cursed—deep and guttural—and buried himself fully inside me as I came, kissing me through it, holding me like I was coming home.

He didn't let go. Just stayed pressed deep, still hard, still steady, still moving, murmuring soft praises against my throat.

"That's it, love... fuckin' beautiful... did so good for me..."

I was shaking. Gasping. The aftershocks rippled through me like waves, my thighs trembling around his hips, breath caught in shallow, desperate sips.

He held on like he couldn't let go. Like letting go would undo him.

And then—

His jaw clenched against my neck. His hips jerked forward—once. Twice.

A low, wrecked groan punched out of his chest. It hit like a storm, a rumble from somewhere deep—somewhere buried and locked tight behind years of silence. I felt it bloom inside me as he surged forward, hands gripping my hips so tight they trembled under his fingers.

"Fuck—" he bit out, ragged. "That's it... bloody hell—"

Another gasp—harsh. Uncontrolled. His mouth pressed to my shoulder, open and shaking. And then he came. Not with violence. Not with thunder. But with weight.

With that last inch of restraint breaking. That last breath caught and dragged down and undone completely, inside me. His entire body shook with it—his arms trembling, breath broken, voice shattered in a half-whispered "Jesus, Nina..."

That—my name—not love, not sweetheart, but my name—like it had fallen from somewhere he didn't know he still carried.

He stayed like that for a long moment. Chest to chest. Skin to skin. Inside me. Breathing like he'd just run a warzone.

My arms wrapped around him, heart still hammering. I felt him—all of him—tucked into the spaces I hadn't let anyone see before. His weight, his heat, his breath slowing against my shoulder.

I brushed a hand through his hair.

He turned slightly—just enough to rest his forehead against mine, noses brushing. His lashes were damp. His mouth was parted. He looked wrecked. Soft. Open.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

His chest rose and fell against mine. The scent of him—clean sweat, skin, the faint edge of mint and soap—wrapped around me like a blanket. My legs were still tangled around his hips, and he hadn't pulled out. Hadn't moved. Just... stayed.

Then his voice came—low, gravel-rough, still caught in the echo of what we'd just done.

"Good, love?"

The words were simple. Clipped. Ghost didn't offer comfort like anyone else. He didn't lace it with softness. He didn't sweeten it to be palatable. He gave you the question like a weapon—blunt, cold-edged, and only real if you meant your answer.

I nodded against him, but that wasn't enough. His hand, still firm at my back, traced a slow circle with his thumb.

"Say it."

"I'm good," I whispered. "Still breathing."

He made a soft sound. Not quite a laugh—more a low exhale that shook something loose in my chest.

"Good." he muttered.

I felt the shift in him then. Not away. Just... deeper into it. Like his body wasn't quite ready to separate yet. He reached with one arm, tugged the sheet up over us in a practiced motion, then settled again. One leg braced on the mattress, the other still tucked around mine.

He didn't roll away. Didn't pull back. Didn't cover his face.

We lay there for what could've been five minutes or fifty. His hand remained steady on my back. His breathing slowly evened. I traced lazy shapes along his spine, every scar and line memorized by feel. And then, like he'd been sitting on it the whole time—

"'Bout fuckin' time."

The corners of my mouth curved up before I could stop them. "Took us months." I muttered, voice raw.

Another one of those sounds from him. Amused. Low in his chest. He didn't elaborate. Didn't wax poetic.

Just—"Worth the wait."

He said it like a fact. Like it didn't need embellishing.

We didn't need words to fill the quiet. There was something sacred in the hush. Like we were both listening to the aftermath. To each other's breathing. To the pulse of what had just changed.

Then, softly—like a final order for the night—

"You're stayin' with me."

It wasn't a question. And I didn't answer.

Because I didn't need to.

I was already staying.

I was already his.