Ben’s head fell back against the pillow, a guttural, broken groan tearing out of his throat as she sank down, taking all of him. The sensation was blinding—a friction and heat so intense it felt like she was burning him alive from the inside out, and God, he was more than happy to burn.

His hands flew to her hips, his fingers digging into her soft skin, not to push her away, but to anchor her. To hold her right there, impaled on him, while his brain tried to reboot.

"Jesus, Cleo," he choked out, his voice wrecked, rasping and barely audible. "You... you win. You definitely win."

He tried to thrust up to meet her, instinct screaming at him to drive deep, but the boxers tangled around his thighs held his legs in check, restricting his movement just enough to be maddening. It forced him to surrender control, to lie there and let her set the pace, and the helplessness of it—combined with the sight of her above him, head thrown back, throat arched in the lamplight—was the most erotic thing he had ever seen.

"Don't move," he pleaded, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. "Just... stay. Let me look at you."

She looked like a goddess. A beautiful, terrifying goddess who had decided to wreck him for sport. Her skin was flushed, her breasts rising and falling with her breath, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. And she was his. This woman who painted in the mornings and built centerpieces out of yard debris was currently riding him with a look of absolute possession on her face.

He moved his hands up, dragging his palms over the curve of her waist, up her ribs, until he could cup her breasts. He thumbed her nipples, watching her eyelids flutter, feeling the way her inner muscles clenched around him in response. That ripple of sensation nearly sent him over the edge right then and there.

"You said you had big plans," he groaned, his hips bucking involuntarily against the restriction of his boxers, trying to get deeper despite the tether. "Is this part of the plan? Killing me before I even get a drawer?"

He watched her eyes open, dark and blown wide, staring down at him with that same fierce intent she’d had when she talked about the future.

"Move," he commanded roughly, unable to take the stillness anymore. "Ride me, Cleo. Take what you want."

He gripped her hips again, guiding her, his thumbs pressing into her flesh as she began to move. The friction was exquisite, a slow, rolling grind that hit every nerve ending he had. He watched her face, watched the pleasure break over her features, and knew, with absolute certainty, that he was never leaving this room. He was never leaving her.

"That's it," he whispered, a litany of praise and worship falling from his lips as she picked up the pace. "Just like that. God, you’re incredible. You feel so good."

He grit his teeth, his head thrashing against the pillow as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in his belly. He was completely at her mercy, bound and buried deep inside her, and there was nowhere else on earth he wanted to be.

"I know," she murmured, her voice a sultry contrast to his rough plea. She leaned down just enough to brush her nose against his, teasing him with the proximity. "And believe me, I love it when you take control. I love the predator in you, Ben. It drives me crazy."

She pulled back, sitting tall again, her palms sliding over the hard planes of his chest, her fingers splaying wide to feel the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath her fingertips. She loved feeling that power thrumming under her hands, knowing she was the cause of it.

"But sometimes," she whispered, her eyes locking with his, dark and heavy with intent, "it’s even better to savor the moment. To feel every single second of it. So I’m going to show you."

She didn't give him the fast, hard rhythm he was begging for. She ignored the way his hips bucked, trying to set a faster tempo. Instead, she tightened her core and began to rock her hips, a slow, deliberate forward-and-back motion rather than up and down.

The friction was maddeningly good, a totally different kind of intensity. She ground herself against his pelvis with every sway, the contact electric, dragging out the sensation until it was a thick, syrupy heat spreading through her veins. It felt like they were melting into each other.

"Oh, god," she gasped softly, the sensation sharpening.
Her head fell back, her hair cascading down her back like a dark curtain. She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to contain the sound that wanted to escape, forcing herself to keep the pace slow, to torture him—and herself—in the most exquisite way possible.

She watched the way his jaw clenched, the way his head thrashed against the pillow, fighting the urge to snap the tether she’d created. A soft, satisfied smile curved her lips, seeing him so completely undone by her pace.

She leaned down, her hair curtaining around them, shutting out the rest of the room until it was just the two of them in the dim light. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips, tasting the desperation and the heat on his breath.
She pulled back just an inch, her eyes searching his.

"Sit up," she commanded, the words barely more than a ghost of a whisper against his mouth.

She felt his core engage immediately, his body obeying her without question. He groaned low in his throat as he levered himself up, his hands gripping her hips to support them both. As he rose, she adjusted her weight, wrapping her arms around his neck to bring him fully flush against her.

Now face-to-face, chest-to-chest, the intimacy was suffocating in the best possible way. She resumed that slow, rolling grind, the angle deeper now, more intense. She let out a shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she rested her forehead against his, sharing the same air, the same heat, the same rhythm.

The command was barely a whisper, but it hit him like a shockwave.

Sit up.

He didn't hesitate. He grit his teeth, his core screaming in protest as he forced himself up, fighting the drag of the boxers and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of moving while buried so deep inside her.

As he rose, the angle shifted, driving him impossibly deeper, hitting a spot that made his vision blur for a second.

"Fuck," he hissed, the word tearing out of his throat as he wrapped his arms around her, locking his hands against the small of her back to anchor them together.

Being this close, chest-to-chest, skin-to-skin, was sensory overload. He could feel her heart hammering against his own ribs, a frantic, syncopated rhythm that matched the blood rushing in his ears. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her—sweat and vanilla and something uniquely Cleo—and let his mouth roam.

He didn't just sit there. He couldn't.

While she set the slow, torturous pace with her hips, he went to work on the rest of her. He kissed the sensitive cord of her neck, open-mouthed and wet, turning the kiss into a sharp, grazing bite that made her shiver in his arms. His hands slid down her spine, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her glutes, kneading and squeezing, pulling her harder against his pelvis with every roll of her hips.

He matched her rhythm now, not fighting for dominance, but harmonizing with it. When she ground forward, he pushed back, rolling his hips to meet her, creating a friction that was less about speed and more about total, consuming contact.

"You feel so fucking good," he groaned against her skin, the vibration of his voice humming against her pulse point. "So tight."

His hand slid up to tangle in the hair at the base of her skull, tilting her head back roughly so he could see her face in the lamplight. He didn't say anything else—he didn't need to. He just leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that was bruising and desperate, pouring every ounce of his adoration and his hunger into it. He swirled his tongue against hers, tasting her, devouring her sigh.

He broke the kiss, breathless, his forehead resting against hers as they continued that slow, maddening grind.

"Don't stop," he rasped, his hands roaming back to her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. "Take exactly what you need."

His mouth on hers was a drug, a potent, dizzying distraction that almost made her lose the rhythm she was fighting so hard to maintain. She hummed against his lips, her hips rolling in that slow, deliberate circle, savoring the way his hands kneaded her flesh, pulling her down just as she pushed up.

She needed more. She needed to see him, to control the angle entirely.
She broke the kiss, breathless, her lips swollen and tingling. Her hands slid from his neck down to his chest, flattening against the hard muscle there.

"Lean back," she whispered, her voice husky and wrecked. "Lean back on your hands, Ben."

He complied instantly, shifting his weight and bracing his arms behind him on the mattress. The movement opened him up completely, exposing the expanse of his chest and throat to her gaze, but more importantly, it shifted the angle inside her again.

Oh.

The sensation was sharper now, deeper. Cleo let out a shaky breath, moving her hands to grip his shoulders. The solid warmth of him under her palms gave her the leverage she needed. She squeezed his shoulders, anchoring herself, and began to pick up the pace.

The slow, torturous roll dissolved into a faster, needy grind. Every slide of her hips against his created a spark that traveled straight up her spine. Her head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as the world narrowed down to the point of contact between them.

"Mmm..." The sound vibrated in her throat, a low, involuntary hum of pure pleasure. She bit her lip, chasing the heat that was pooling rapidly in her belly. She moved faster, the friction becoming a constant, electric current, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she focused entirely on the climbing pressure, desperate to reach the peak.

The friction was everything. The drag combined with the fullness of him created a textured, overwhelming overstimulation that made her toes curl against the mattress. It wasn't just physical; it was the way he let her take the lead, the way he lay back and offered himself up to her completely.
She forced her heavy eyelids open, needing to ground herself in the sight of him before she completely unraveled.

Ben looked... wrecked. Beautifully wrecked. His head was tipped slightly back, the cords of his neck straining, his jaw locked tight as he endured the pleasure. But his eyes—dark, dilated, and burning with intensity—were locked on her face, watching her unravel. Seeing him watch her, seeing the hunger and adoration in his gaze, was the final push she needed.

"Mmm... Ben," she whimpered, the sound broken and airy, vibrating against her own lips.

She couldn't keep the rhythm smooth anymore. The need to crest was too demanding. Her movements became sharper, more desperate—jerky, hard snaps of her hips as she ground down, seeking that friction, hitting that spot repeatedly. Her fingers curled inward, nails biting into the skin of his shoulders to anchor herself against the rising tide.

"I'm... I'm close," she breathed, the confession tearing out of her as a frantic heat flushed her skin. "Don't move... just let me..."

He did exactly as he was told, though it cost him everything.

He shifted his weight back, planting his palms on the mattress behind him and locking his elbows, creating a solid, unmoving incline for her. The shift in angle was immediate and lethal—it drove him impossibly deeper, hitting a nerve that made his vision swim, but he didn't make a sound. He just grit his teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he let the wave of sensation crash over him.

He felt like a man strapped to the front of a rocket, completely at the mercy of the countdown, and he wouldn't have traded it for anything.

Because the view... the view was going to haunt him for the rest of his life.

From this angle, he had a front-row seat to her unraveling. He watched the lamplight catch the sheen of sweat rising on her chest, the flush deepening across her skin like a bloom. He watched the heavy, mesmerizing sway of her breasts with every sharp snap of her hips, the way her hair whipped around her face, wild and messy and perfect.

He watched her eyes squeeze shut, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, and felt a surge of possessive pride so strong it nearly choked him. She was coming undone, completely wrecking herself, and she was doing it all on him.

He wanted to move. God, he wanted to move. Every predatory instinct in his body was screaming at him to snap his hips forward, to grab her waist and drive into her until they both saw stars. His triceps trembled with the effort of holding himself still, his knuckles turning white where they gripped the sheets, his biceps straining as he locked his frame into place.

But he didn't budge. He stayed perfectly, torturously still, becoming nothing more than an anchor for her pleasure.

He listened to the sounds tearing out of her—the broken, airy whimpers, that low, vibrating hum that he could feel reverberating against his own chest. It was the hottest sound he’d ever heard, better than any song, better than any crowd.

When her nails dug into his shoulders, sharp and desperate, stinging his skin, a bolt of electricity shot straight from the pain to his groin. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached, his head falling back slightly, eyes burning as he forced himself to keep watching, to keep enduring the pleasure that was building like a pressure cooker at the base of his spine.

“I’m... I’m close. Don’t move... just let me...”

"God, you're beautiful," he whispered, his voice cracking. "Don't hold back. I want to see you fall apart."

He locked every muscle in his body, forcing himself to be as hard and steady as stone beneath her. He kept his eyes glued to her face, refusing to miss a single second of her breaking. He wanted to burn this image into his brain forever—Cleo, wild and desperate, taking exactly what she needed from him.

He barely breathed. He just held on, his hips aching with the violent need to thrust, waiting for her to take them both over the edge.

The tension that had been winding tighter and tighter in her belly finally snapped.

His voice—rough, broken, and full of raw worship—was the final push she needed. The world behind her eyelids exploded into brilliant, blinding color. A sharp, ragged cry tore from her throat, her hips stuttering as the pleasure seized her completely, dragging her under. She rode the crest of it, her body convulsing, chasing every last ripple of sensation while he remained that steady, immovable rock beneath her.

As the intensity crested and broke, her strength gave out all at once. Her arms trembled and folded, and she collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked skin meeting his chest with a heavy, breathless impact. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, gasping for air, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

She lay there for a long moment, completely spent, whimpering softly as the aftershocks continued to flutter through her, sharp little spasms that she knew he could feel deep inside.

Slowly, the haze began to clear. Cleo lifted her head, her hair falling like a curtain around them. She looked down at him, seeing the strain still etched in his jaw, the dark, predatory hunger in his eyes that he had held back for her sake.

A slow, languid smile spread across her lips. She reached out, her palms sliding up his chest to cup his face, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

"Now," she whispered, her voice husky and wrecked, "you can have your way with me."

thumbs traced the hard line of his jaw, soothing the muscle he’d been clenching so tight. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the way his chest heaved beneath hers as he fought to maintain that last shred of control.

"Since you were such a good boy," she added, the words a low, teasing purr against his skin.

She didn't wait for an answer. She leaned in, sealing her mouth over his, eager and demanding. She pushed her tongue past his lips, sweeping into his mouth with a hunger that matched the fire burning in his eyes, tasting the desperate groan that vibrated in his throat as she finally gave him the signal to let go.

The phrase good boy hit him like a physical blow to the chest, snapping the last, fraying thread of his restraint.

He didn't just accept the kiss; he devoured it. He wrapped his arms around her, one hand tangling in her hair to hold her mouth to his, the other gripping her hip with bruising force. A low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest—a sound of pure, unleashed relief.

"Finally," he groaned into her mouth, the word rough and jagged.

He didn't waste a second. He abandoned the passive, supportive role he’d held for the last ten minutes and took exactly what she had offered.

He flexed his core and bucked his hips upward, driving into her hard and deep, burying himself to the hilt. The sensation of finally moving, of meeting her heat with his own force, was blinding. He found a rhythm instantly—fast, sharp, and desperate—making up for every second he’d spent holding still.

He felt her gasp against his lips, felt the aftershocks of her own pleasure ripple around him, and it spurred him on. He ground against her, seeking friction, seeking release, his entire world narrowing down to the friction of their bodies and the taste of her tongue.

He was starving for her. He wanted to merge with her, to fuse his bones with hers so she could never leave.

"You like that?" he rasped, breaking the kiss to bury his face in the damp curve of her neck, biting lightly at the sensitive skin there. "You like making me wait? You little..."

He couldn't finish the sentence. The pleasure spiked, turning white-hot and consuming. His hips snapped forward in a jagged, erratic rhythm, his breath coming in harsh pants against her skin.

"Cleo," he choked out, his voice wrecked. "I’m... I’m going to.."

He drove into her one last time, holding himself deep inside as he came undone. The release was violent and absolute, a crashing wave that emptied him completely, leaving him shaking and breathless in her arms. He gripped her tight, anchoring himself to her as the world spun, his heart hammering against hers like it was trying to break through his ribs.

He held her there for a long time, riding out the aftershocks, his heavy breaths slowly evening out into the quiet of the room.

Eventually, the tension drained from his muscles, replaced by a heavy, liquid warmth. He went boneless, sinking back against the pillows, taking her with him. He kept his arms wrapped around her, refusing to let her go, pulling the duvet up over them to create a warm, dark cocoon.

He pressed a kiss to her sweaty forehead, then rested his cheek against the top of her head, eyes closing.

"Okay," he murmured, his voice a sleepy, satisfied rumble in his chest. "You were right. The merger was a success. Shareholders are thrilled."

He squeezed her gently, a lazy smile spreading across his face in the dark.

"But if you ever call me a 'good boy' again... just know that I will absolutely use it against you. That is a dangerous weapon, Cleo. You have to have a permit for that."

A soft laugh bubbled up from her throat, vibrating against his ribs. She tilted her head back, resting her chin on his chest so she could look him in the eye, her expression shifting into a wicked, satisfied grin.

"Oh, don't worry about the paperwork," she teased, tracing a fingertip over the damp skin of his shoulder. "I’ve already got the license. It’s lifetime valid, non-revocable, and strictly exclusive."

Her grin widened, sharp and playful, her eyes dancing with mischief. "So, I hate to break it to you, but I will call you a 'good boy' whenever I damn well please."

She didn't give him a chance to respond. With a dramatic, heavy sigh of feigned exhaustion, she untangled herself just enough to flip over. She pressed her back against his chest, wiggling her hips until she was nestled perfectly against him—the little spoon to his big spoon—and pulled his heavy arm firmly around her waist to lock him in place.

"Deal with it," she mumbled into the pillow, her eyes closing as a triumphant smile lingered on her lips.

The room fell quiet, the only sound the steady rhythm of his breathing against her ear. The playfulness slowly ebbed away, replaced by a deep, bone-settling comfort. She felt his arm tighten just a fraction around her, pulling her flush against him, and she let out a long, contented breath.

She reached down, lacing her fingers through his where his hand rested on her stomach, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I love you, Benjamin," she whispered into the dark, her voice soft and heavy with sleep. "Good night."

He let out a low, vibrating huff against her neck—a sound that was trying to be grumpy about the "good boy" threat but failed miserably, dissolving into a smile he couldn't hide even in the dark.

"Brat," he whispered, but there was no heat in it. Only fond, hopeless adoration.

He adjusted instantly when she flipped, his body curling around hers on instinct. He pulled the duvet up to her chin, tucking her in, then draped his arm heavy and possessive over her waist, anchoring her there. Being the big spoon was his favorite state of being. It was the only time he felt like he could protect her from everything—even if the only thing currently attacking them was exhaustion.

When she said Benjamin—the full name, heavy and serious and sweet—his heart did that traitorous flip again. It sounded less like a name and more like a title he finally earned.

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in one last time, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breathing syncing with his. The silence in the room wasn't empty anymore; it was full.

"I love you too, Cleo," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep, vibrating against her back.
He kissed her shoulder through the duvet, his eyes slipping shut, his limbs heavy and warm.

"You're stuck with me now," he added, barely audible, already drifting off. "No take-backs."
Then he let the darkness take them, holding onto his girl, in his bed, in their home.