Ben stopped.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, the loss of contact making a muscle in his jaw jump, and rested his forehead against hers. He looked deep into her eyes, seeing the desperation there, the raw need that mirrored his own.

"I’m not teasing you, baby," he whispered, his voice rough, breathless. He brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, tender despite the fire in his blood. "You know how I do vocal warm-ups before a show? All those scales? The humming?"

He kissed the corner of her mouth, soft and reassuring.

"It’s not to stall," he murmured against her lips. "It’s so I don't wreck the instrument when I finally hit the high notes. I just want to make sure you’re ready to sing for me."

But her plea—right now, be with me—cracked the last of his discipline. He couldn't hold back anymore. The preparation was done; the show was starting.

He shifted his hips, his hand moving down to guide himself. He lined the broad head of his cock up with her entrance, feeling the slick, welcoming heat he’d coaxed from her.

"Okay," he breathed, his eyes locking onto hers. "No more waiting."

He pushed forward.

He entered her slowly, agonizingly so. He let the head slide past the ring of muscle, stretching her, filling her inch by glorious inch. The sensation was blinding—hot, tight, and wet—a velvet vice that wrapped around him and felt like coming home.

He watched her face as he claimed her, watched her eyes widen and her lips part. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself not to snap his hips, forcing himself to take this slow. He slid deep, burying himself to the hilt until his hips met hers with a heavy, final thud.

He bottomed out and stopped.

"God," he groaned, the sound torn from his chest. He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, squeezing his eyes shut as the pleasure washed over him in a crushing wave. She felt incredible. She felt perfect.

He held there for a long moment, letting her adjust to the size of him, letting the reality of them being connected like this sink in. He wrapped his arm under her, pulling her body flush against his, skin to skin, heart to heart.

Then, slowly, he began to move.

He pulled back almost all the way out, then dragged himself back in—a long, heavy stroke that hit every nerve ending. He wasn't pounding into her; he was savoring her. He established a slow, rolling rhythm, grinding against her clit with his pelvis on the downstroke, listening to the way her breath hitched in time with his thrusts.

He turned his head, finding her mouth, and kissed her deeply, his tongue mimicking the slow, relentless slide of his body inside hers.

Cleo let out a long, shaky moan as he finally filled her. His words about the warm-up floated through her mind, sweet and funny, but they were instantly drowned out by the sheer, overwhelming physical reality of him stretching her. The sensation of him sliding deep, burying himself until there was no space left between them, was a relief so profound it made her toes curl.

As he began that slow, rolling rhythm, a high, needy whimper escaped her throat. It felt heavy and consuming, a friction that set her blood on fire. Her hands wandered over the expanse of his back, her palms sliding against his warm, damp skin. She traced the shifting muscles of his shoulder blades, feeling the power in his body as he moved over her and in her.

She needed more. She needed him closer, deeper. She lifted her hips, arching off the mattress to meet his thrusts, trying to take every inch he was offering.

Suddenly, he angled his hips just right, grinding against a deep, sensitive spot inside her that sent a jolt of pure electricity through her nervous system. She cried out, the sound broken and raw, her fingernails digging slightly into his shoulders.

"Oh!" she gasped, the pleasure spiking sharp and bright. She hooked her arms tighter around his neck, dragging his heavy frame down until he was crushing her into the mattress, until she was completely enveloped by his heat. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, her breath hot against his skin.

"Benjamin," she breathed, the full name falling from her lips like a prayer, heavy with affection and surrender. "Yes... Benjamin."

The rhythm he set was slow and deep, a rolling tide that seemed to reach the very center of her being, and with every heavy stroke, the haze in Cleo’s mind crystallized into a single, radiant image.

It wasn't just pleasure; it was purpose. Every time he buried himself inside her, she felt a soaring sense of completion that went beyond the physical. This is it, she thought, her mind whirling with visions of dark, unruly curls and little hands grabbing at her fingers. She could see a little boy with Ben’s soulful eyes, a little girl with his gentle smile. She wanted that future so badly it ached, a sweet, hollow longing in her chest that only he could fill.

She tossed her head back, a broken, high-pitched moan tearing from her throat as he hit that spot again, harder this time. She didn't just want to feel him; she wanted to keep a piece of him.

"Yes..." she hissed, her hands raking down the damp skin of his back, her nails dragging lightly over his shoulder blades to urge him on.

She lifted her hips to meet him, slamming against him, trying to fuse their bodies together permanently. Her hands flew up to tangle violently in his thick hair, gripping the strands she adored, the strands she imagined brushing out of a toddler's eyes one day.

"Deeper," she begged, her voice ragged and breathless. She bit her lip, overwhelmed by the friction and the fierce, biological need crashing through her. "I want all of you. Make it real."

Her voice cracked on the name, a desperate, breathless prayer that shattered whatever fragile control Ben had left.

Make it real.

The command hit him like a physical blow, bypassing his brain and wiring directly into the primal, possessive instinct that had been roaring in his blood since she first mentioned names in the trailer. The time for charming metaphors and slow, teasing warm-ups was over. She wasn’t asking for the boyfriend who opened wine bottles; she was asking for the man who wanted to bind her to him permanently.

He didn't answer her. He couldn't. His throat was too tight, his pulse deafening in his ears.
He groaned, a rough, guttural sound torn from the deepest part of his chest, and tightened his grip on her waist until his fingers dug into her soft skin.

He pulled back—slowly, agonizingly—dragging himself almost all the way out until just the swollen head remained hooked inside her entrance. He felt her hips buck, chasing him, unwilling to let him go, and the desperation in her movement snapped the last tether of his restraint.

He snapped his hips forward.

He drove into her hard, burying himself to the hilt in a single, punishing thrust that pushed her body up the mattress. The impact knocked the breath out of her in a sharp gasp, and the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed erotic and loud in the quiet room.

He didn't retreat this time. He held himself there, grinding deep against that swollen, sensitive spot she’d cried out over, letting her feel the full weight and length of him stretching her, filling her, claiming the space.

Then he pulled back and did it again.

And again.

The rhythm shifted instantly from a slow roll to a hard, relentless pounding. It was a drumbeat, heavy and fast. He released her waist and grabbed her thighs, his large hands sliding down to hook behind her knees. He hauled her legs wider, pressing them back toward her shoulders, opening her up completely to his view.

This angle changed everything. It let him go deeper than before, hitting the very back of her, touching parts of her he felt like he was discovering for the first time.

He watched her face as he fucked her—watched the way her eyes rolled back, the way her lips parted in a silent scream, the way her head thrashed against the white pillowcase. He was sweating now, a fine sheen coating his back, his muscles straining as he maintained the pace. Every thrust was a declaration. Every time he slammed into her, he was answering her plea.

Real. Real. Real.

He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of her sweat, her perfume, and her arousal. He bit down lightly on the sensitive slope of her shoulder—not to hurt, but to stifle his own roar of pleasure, to mark her. His hand slid down from her knee to grip her hip bone, his thumb digging in to anchor her against the force of his thrusts, keeping her exactly where he needed her.

He wasn't holding back a single ounce of energy. He was pouring everything he had into her—the adrenaline of the tour, the quiet of the hotel room, the terrifying fierce love that had been building in his chest for months. He pounded into her with a terrifying, beautiful intensity, determined to give her exactly what she asked for, determined to leave a part of himself inside her that would never, ever leave.

Cleo gasped, her head thrashing against the pillow as the rhythm shifted from a slide to a slam. The sheer force of him pushed her up the mattress, jarring the breath from her lungs, but she didn't fight it. She welcomed the violence of it, the absolute possessiveness in the way he held her legs wide and drove into her. It felt like he was trying to merge their bodies into one, and she loved every second of the crushing weight.

She craned her neck, seeking his mouth, and when she found it, she kissed him with a wild, messy heat, tasting the salt on his skin. She sucked on his tongue, meeting his energy, before she pulled back just an inch. Her eyes half-lidded and dark with desire, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth and bit down—hard enough to be felt, a seductive, siren-like challenge amidst the storm.

When he groaned and buried his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her shoulder, a shiver ripped through her that had nothing to do with the cold air. She didn't flinch away. Her hand slid up the back of his sweat-dampened neck, her fingers weaving into the thick hair at the base of his skull. She gripped tight, anchoring him there, holding his heavy head against her pulsing skin as if to say, I’ve got you.

She wasn't even trying to reach a climax. The pressure was building, hot and coiled, but she ignored it, letting it simmer in the background. She didn't want this to end, and she wasn't chasing her own release. She wanted this—the connection, the feeling of him filling the empty spaces inside her. Her goal was singular and fierce. She wanted to keep him. She wanted his DNA woven into hers; she wanted the consequence of this night to last a lifetime.

As he pulled back slightly, his chest heaving, she reached up and framed his face with both hands. Her thumbs stroked over his flushed cheekbones, wiping away a bead of sweat. She looked up at him, her expression open and wrecked, a portrait of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

She stared straight into his dark, dilated eyes, seeing the edge he was teetering on. She wanted him to fall. She wanted him to ruin her.

"Let go, Ben," she whispered, her voice a smoky, broken rasp. She ran her thumb over his lip, her gaze dropping to his mouth and then back up to his eyes with searing intent. "Give it all to me. Be a good boy..."

She arched her hips, inviting him deeper one last time.

"...and finish inside me."

The bite to his lip was a spark in a powder keg, but the words—be a good boy—were the match that blew the whole thing sky-high.

Ben’s vision actually blurred at the edges. The praise, whispered in that smoky, wrecked rasp, hit him right in the center of his chest, stripping away the last of his civilized layers. It wasn’t just hot; it was devastating. It tapped directly into the part of him that just wanted to serve her, to please her, to give her everything he had until he was empty.

"Cleo," he choked out, the name tearing from his throat as a ragged, desperate groan.
He didn't just let go; he unraveled.

He abandoned the rhythm he’d been maintaining. He stopped trying to pace himself, stopped trying to make it last. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her skin with bruising force, and he drove into her with a frantic, chaotic need. He fucked her hard, fast, and deep, chasing the friction, chasing the edge that was suddenly rushing up to meet him.
He watched her face—the way she looked at him, open and demanding—and he felt his control shatter completely.

Finish inside me.

"Yes," he hissed, his voice unrecognizable. "Yes, baby."

He slammed into her one last time, burying himself to the root, grinding his pelvis against hers to get as deep as physically possible.

Then he broke.

He tensed, his entire body going rigid as the orgasm hit him like a freight train. He threw his head back, a guttural roar of pleasure ripping from his throat, loud and raw in the quiet room. He poured himself into her, pulsing hard, flooding her with everything she’d asked for, everything he’d been holding back.

He held her tight, his arms shaking with the force of his release, pressing her into the mattress as he spent himself completely. It went on and on, wave after wave of white-hot intensity that left him feeling hollowed out and refilled all at once.

He stayed there for a long time, buried deep inside her, his chest heaving against hers, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. He couldn't move. He didn't want to. He felt heavy, drained, and completely, irrevocably hers.

Slowly, the room started to come back into focus—the dim light, the hum of the heater, the sound of their ragged breathing mingling in the air.

Ben dropped his head to her shoulder, his face buried in her hair, too weak to lift it. He pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to her skin, tasting the salt of her sweat.

"I love you," he murmured, his voice a wrecked, breathless rumble against her neck.
He pulled her closer, his arms tightening around her as if he could physically hold the moment in place.

"I hope that was it," he whispered, sounding awed and absolutely sure. "I hope we just made a Sage or a Briar. I’m ready to meet them."

Cleo lay there, her chest rising and falling in time with his, the heavy, comforting weight of his body pressing her into the mattress. She felt completely unraveled, her limbs heavy and loose, but her heart was full to bursting.

"I love you too," she whispered, her voice trembling and thick with emotion. She pressed her cheek against the top of his head, her arms tightening around his broad shoulders. "Always. So much."

But when he murmured those names—Sage or Briar—and spoke with such awe about meeting them, something inside her fractured.

Tears, hot and sudden, pricked at the corners of her eyes and spilled over, tracking silently into her hairline. She squeezed her eyes shut, overwhelmed by a wave of longing so sharp it almost hurt.

For the longest time, she hadn't let herself touch this dream. She hadn't let herself look at Ben—at the chaotic, loud, public whirlwind of his life—and picture a nursery. The touring, the screaming fans, the constant movement… none of it was conducive to the quiet, private life she craved. She was terrified of the world knowing their business. She remembered how suffocating it felt the last time things got out of hand, the intrusion, the judgment. She wasn't sure she had the armor for that kind of war again.

But lying here beneath him, feeling the way he held her like she was the only thing that tethered him to the earth, the fear began to recede, replaced by a fragile, blooming hope.

He wasn't just the rockstar tonight. He was Benjamin. He was the man who wanted to be noble, who wanted to protect her, who wanted to build something real. If he could keep being this man—if he could keep shielding her and prioritizing us over them—then maybe, just maybe, they could have this.
She sniffled, shifting slightly to kiss his sweat-dampened temple, her fingers stroking soothingly through his hair.

"I hope so too," she choked out, her voice barely audible, acknowledging the terrifying, wonderful possibility for the first time. "I really hope so."

The room settled into a heavy, peaceful silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing slowly syncing back up. Ben felt heavy on her, a dead weight of exhausted muscle and bone, but Cleo didn't want him to move. She wanted to feel every ounce of him, wanted to keep him anchored right here in this safe, private harbor they’d created.

She shifted her hand, sliding it from the nape of his neck to his face. She curled her fingers slightly, using the smooth side of her index finger to trace the strong, sharp line of his jaw. The dark stubble rasped against her skin—a rough, masculine texture that contrasted perfectly with the tenderness of the moment. It was grounding, that grit. It reminded her that he was real, that he was here, and not just a dream she was having.

"I've got you," she whispered into the quiet, her voice a soft, lulling hum.
She continued the motion, gliding her finger back and forth along his jawline, a rhythmic, soothing caress designed to calm the adrenaline she knew was still fading from his blood. She pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, breathing in the scent of him.

"Just breathe, baby," she murmured, her touch steady and loving. "I'm right here. We're right here."

Ben felt the wetness against his temple before he registered the sound of her sniffle.
He was floating—drifting in that heavy, golden haze that comes after completely emptying yourself—but the sensation of her tears, and the quiet, trembling way she said I hope so too, pulled him right back to the surface.

He didn't move his body at first. He let her hand continue that soothing, rhythmic stroke along his jaw, leaning into her touch because he needed it just as much as she did. It was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the mattress.

But he needed to see her.

"Hey," he rasped, the word vibrating against her collarbone.

He gathered his strength—which was currently sitting at about zero percent—and pushed himself up onto his forearms. The movement was slow, his muscles protesting the effort, but he needed to take his weight off her chest. He hovered there, framing her face, and looked down.

She was wrecked. Beautiful, flushed, and crying silent, hot tears that were tracking into her hair.

Ben felt his heart squeeze tight in his chest. He knew those tears. He knew they weren't just happiness; they were relief. They were the release of all the anxiety she carried about his world, about them, about whether this fragile thing they were building could actually survive the noise.

"Baby," he murmured, his face softening with a tenderness that hurt.

He lowered his head, pressing his lips softly to the wet track on her cheek, tasting the salt. He kissed her eyelid, then the corner of her eye, drinking up the evidence of her fear and her hope.

"We’re right here," he echoed her words, pulling back just enough to lock eyes with her. "And we're not going anywhere. I promise you."

He shifted one hand to brush a damp strand of hair off her forehead, his thumb lingering on her temple.

"If we just made a Sage or a Briar?" he whispered, a crooked, exhausted smile touching his lips. "Then they're going to be lucky. Because they get you."

He kissed her mouth—soft, lingering, sealing the promise—before finally groaning and rolling off her. He didn't go far. He collapsed onto his side and immediately scooped her up, pulling her back against his chest so they were spooning, fitting her body into the curve of his like a puzzle piece. He draped his heavy arm over her waist, his hand resting flat and possessive over her stomach.

He buried his face in the back of her neck, inhaling deeply, feeling her heart beat against his forearm.

"I am officially a corpse," he mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. "I can't move. If there is a fire, you have to save yourself. Tell the world I died happy."

He squeezed her middle gently, his hand splaying wide over her belly, warm and protective.

"But seriously," he whispered, drifting now, safe in the harbor she'd built for him. "Thank you. For being brave with me."

Cleo’s breath caught when he said hey, the sound of it vibrating against her collarbone like he was anchoring himself there. Her fingers never stopped moving along his jaw, slow and repetitive, like she was afraid that if she did, everything would spill at once.

“I know,” she whispered back, voice thin and trembling. “I’m here. I just—” She swallowed. “I’m here.”

When he lifted himself and looked at her, really looked, the tears broke harder. She didn’t try to hide them. Her eyes shone, lashes clumped, mouth pulling tight as she tried to keep herself steady and failed anyway.

“Baby,” she echoed softly when he said it, the word undoing her completely. Her hand slid up to his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye like she needed to reassure herself he was solid, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

She let him kiss the tears from her face, eyes closing as he did, her breath stuttering. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, not because she felt wrong for crying, but because the intensity of it surprised even her. “I’m not sad. I’m just… relieved. And scared. And really, really full.”

When he promised they weren’t going anywhere, her forehead tipped forward until it rested briefly against his. “I want to believe that,” she said quietly. “I do. Sometimes it just feels too good to be real.”

At the mention of the names, a broken little laugh slipped out through her tears. “Sage or Briar,” she murmured. “Our musician, surfer or a painter, ” Her hand drifted down to his wrist, holding him there. “Like us.”

She kissed him back when he kissed her, slow and lingering, as if she were memorizing the shape of it.

And then he pulled her back against him.

The moment his arm settled over her waist and his hand rested warm and sure against her stomach, the dam finally gave. Her shoulders shook, breath hitching as the tears came harder—not panicked, not sharp, just deep and overwhelming. She pressed her face into his forearm, letting herself cry without restraint now that she was held.

“I didn’t know I was holding this much,” she whispered between uneven breaths. “I didn’t know where to put it.”

His joke drew a soft, tearful laugh out of her. “I’d come back for you,” she said quietly. “Even if there was a fire. I’d come back.”

She reached back, lacing her fingers through his where it rested on her middle, holding his hand there like it was meant to be. Her crying didn’t stop right away—it softened, turned into quiet, shuddering breaths as she let herself feel everything at once.

When he thanked her, her voice came out raw but sincere. “Thank you,” she murmured. “For seeing me like this and not pulling away.”

She shifted closer, fitting herself more fully into the curve of him, still crying softly—not from fear now, but from the release of finally letting herself believe she was safe enough to fall apart.

Ben felt the tremors running through her body, the way her breath hitched and stuttered against his arm. He didn't try to hush her. He didn't try to fix it. He just lay there, solid and unmoving, letting his body absorb the shockwaves of her release.

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, his lips finding the soft, damp skin just below her ear. He kissed her there—slow, reverent, breathing in the scent of her skin and the lingering trace of the sex they’d just shared.

"Hey," he murmured against her shoulder, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "Don't thank me for that. Never thank me for that."

He shifted his arm, his hand spreading wider over her stomach, his thumb rubbing a slow, soothing circle over her navel.

"You think I want the polished version?" he whispered, his mouth moving to press a kiss to the prominent bone of her shoulder blade. "You think I want the red carpet Cleo who smiles for the cameras and pretends everything is fine?"

He shook his head against her hair, tightening his hold on her waist.

"I don't. I want this. I want the messy parts. I want the snot and the tears and the shaking."
He paused, resting his cheek against her shoulder, his eyes closed but his heart wide open.

"Seeing you like this... trusting me enough to fall apart?" he said softly, the truth of it making his voice thick. "That’s the biggest compliment you could ever give me. It’s better than the applause. It’s real. And I am so in love with the real version of you it’s actually kind of embarrassing."

He kissed her shoulder again, feeling her body slowly start to soften into his, the jagged edges of her crying beginning to smooth out.

"And as for the 'pulling away' part," he added, a hint of that familiar, teasing warmth creeping back into his tone, though it was quieter now, gentler.

He squeezed her middle, possessive and sure.

"Bad news, babe. You’re stuck with me. We just crossed the Rubicon. We just—hopefully—combined genetic material."

He nudged his nose against her neck, smiling against her skin.

"I’m like a barnacle now. I’m like a burr on a sweater. You couldn’t shake me if you tried. I’m going to be annoying you with bad jokes and foot massages for the next fifty years, so you might as well get used to the weight."

Cleo let out a shaky breath when he said hey, the word settling her more than anything else had. She nodded slightly against his arm, as if agreeing with him without trusting her voice yet.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Then I won’t. But I’m still grateful you’re… you.”

When his hand spread over her stomach, slow and grounding, she reached back and threaded her fingers through his, holding on like it anchored her to the bed, to him, to the moment. Her breathing began to even out, though her chest still felt tender and wide open.

“I know,” she murmured when he talked about the polished version of her, her voice softer now, steadier. “I get so tired of pretending I’m fine all the time. It’s exhausting being watched.” She swallowed, squeezing his hand gently. “This version of me doesn’t get much air.”

At his words about wanting the messy parts, her eyes burned again—but this time the tears came slower, warmer. She turned her head just enough to press her cheek against his forearm.

“I don’t fall apart in front of people,” she admitted quietly. “I didn’t even realize how much I was holding back until you didn’t flinch.”

When he told her he loved the real version of her, she laughed softly through the last of her tears, the sound shaky but genuine.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head back slightly toward him, “I’m very relieved you’re into this one. Because she’s the only one who actually knows how to breathe.”

At his teasing, she huffed a quiet laugh, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand before settling again. She tightened her grip on his fingers, then turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder, eyes still damp but glowing.

“You joke,” she said softly, “but I can’t wait.” She paused, choosing her words carefully, honestly. “I can’t wait for the day I get to watch you hold a tiny human and realize you’ve already been practicing your whole life. The patience. The care. The way you show up.”

Her voice warmed as she went on, steadier now. “I can see it so clearly—our mornings, our messes, our life. You making terrible jokes and pretending you’re not emotional about it.”

She squeezed his hand again, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“That future?” she murmured. “It feels real to me. And it feels… safe.”

She settled back into him, letting her body relax fully now, her tears finally spent.

“And for the record,” she added quietly, a smile in her voice, “I don’t mind barnacles. Especially the ones who stay.”