Ben didn’t need to hear another word. The "acoustic version" was dead and buried under the floorboards of the cabin.

He let out a low, guttural sound—half-snarl, half-groan—as she freed him from his jeans. The moment his skin met hers, the heat was blinding. He didn't just step into her; he slammed his hips forward, pinning her back against the backsplash with a force that made the pots and pans on the stove rattle.

"You want the stadium tour?" he rasped, his voice a jagged, filthy ruin. "Fine. But you don't get to ask me to stop when it gets too loud."

He reached down, his hand a blur of motion as he hooked his fingers into the lace of her underwear and the denim of her unzipped jeans. He didn't bother sliding them off. He yanked them down past her hips with a brutal, single-minded shove, baring her completely to the firelight. He spread her legs even wider, his hands absolute in their authority as he forced her knees toward her chest, exposing every wet, swollen inch of her to his gaze.

He looked at her then—really looked at her—and the sight of her spread open on his kitchen counter, her breasts heaving and her eyes glazed with a desperate, animalistic need, snapped the last of his restraint.

"Look at you," he hissed, his thumb moving to her center, grinding into her wetness with a punishing, rhythmic pressure that made her hips buck uncontrollably. "Slick and begging for it. You think those girls in the front row have any idea what you look like right now? How much of a mess you are for me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the flesh like he was trying to leave permanent marks, and guided himself to her entrance. He was thick, straining, and absolutely lethal in his intent.

He didn't ease in. He didn't give her a second to adjust.

He drove into her in one deep, violent thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

The sound she made—a sharp, shattered scream that was cut off by his mouth slamming back onto hers—was the only music he cared about. He felt her internal muscles clamp down on him, a frantic, tight welcome that nearly sent him over the edge instantly.

He started a rhythm that was anything but domestic. It was a pounding, relentless cadence, his hips hitting hers with a heavy, wet thud that echoed through the small kitchen. He was taking her with a vulgar, unadulterated selfishness, his breath coming in jagged hitches against her ear.

"You're mine," he growled, pulling her head back by her hair again so he could look into her eyes while he wrecked her. He wasn't being gentle; he was being a force of nature. "Every scream, every mark I leave on you—that's the lyric, Cleo. That's the only one that matters."

He increased the speed, his thrusts becoming shorter, sharper, and more punishing. He watched her face crumble, watched her beauty turn into a mask of pure, agonizing pleasure as he bottomed out again and again, hitting her deep and hard.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice dropping to a filthy, possessive command as he felt her starting to unravel beneath him. "Tell me who you're screaming for. Tell me who owns this."

He ground his pelvis against hers, his sweat dripping onto her chest, his eyes dark with the kind of madness that only came from having everything he ever wanted right where he could break it.

"Tell me, babe. Before I take everything else."

The air left Cleo’s lungs in a rush, not as a breath, but as a shattered, broken cry that was immediately swallowed by the rough possession of his kiss. She couldn't have adjusted even if she wanted to; the sheer size and suddenness of him stretched her to her absolute limit, filling every hollow space until she felt entirely consumed by him.

When he pulled back to look at her, she was already gone, her head falling back against the cabinet door with a dull thud, her neck arching to expose the frantic pulse fluttering in her throat. She was drowning in the sensation—the friction, the heat, the relentless, punishing rhythm he set.

Her hands flew to his upper arms, her fingers digging desperately into his biceps, her nails biting into the tense muscle as if he were the only thing keeping her from sliding to the floor. She needed him to anchor her; she needed him to ruin her.

"Ben..." she choked out, her voice barely recognizable, thin and trembling. "Oh god, Ben..."

Every thrust slammed her back against the wood, shaking the breath out of her in jagged, rhythmic gasps. She squeezed her eyes shut, flashes of light bursting behind her lids as the pleasure spiked, sharp and electric, blurring the line between pain and ecstasy. She unlocked her ankles from where they had been resting and wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, wordlessly begging for more of the pressure that was driving her insane.

"You," she sobbed, her hips bucking to meet his violence with a desperate need of her own. She opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused and hazy, locking onto the dark madness in his. "It’s yours. All of it... God, Ben, I’m yours. Make it loud... don't stop."

Her grip on him turned frantic as the pace accelerated, transforming from a rhythm into a relentless, battering assault. Her fingernails scraped desperately over the sweat-slicked skin of his shoulders, dragging down to dig into the tense muscles of his back, leaving stinging red crescents in her wake. She needed to anchor herself, to hold onto something solid, because the world was dissolving around her.

"Ben!" she screamed, the name tearing from her throat as he drove into her with a speed that left her breathless, her head knocking rhythmically against the cabinet door.

She squeezed her eyes shut so tight that stars burst behind her lids, but it couldn't stop the physiological reaction to the overstimulation. Hot tears welled rapidly along her lash line, spilling over to track hot paths into her hairline. It wasn’t pain, and it wasn’t sadness—it was pure, unadulterated intensity, a sensory overload that shattered her composure completely.

Ben watched her break, and for a split second, the rockstar in him wanted to ride that wave of her desperation until he shattered alongside her. He could feel the pulse of her walls—tight, frantic, and rhythmically crushing him—and the urge to finish inside her was a roar in his blood. If this were a tour-stop distraction, he would have just hammered into her until he went blind.

But this wasn't a distraction. This was Cleo.

The realization that he had her completely unraveled—weeping, screaming his name, her nails marking his skin like a map of his own conquest—sent a dark, sadistic thrill through his chest. He didn't want the easy release. He wanted to see just how much of the "stadium tour" she could actually handle before she begged for mercy.

With a sharp, guttural growl, Ben moved.

He didn't slow down; he just stopped. He gripped her hips with bruising force and yanked himself out of her in one harsh, wet motion.

The sudden absence was jarring. Cleo let out a small, wounded sound of protest, her hips jerking forward to find the heat she’d just lost. Ben stepped back just an inch, his chest heaving, his cock twitching and slick with her in the firelight. He looked at her, his eyes cold and predatory, refusing to give her a second to recover.

"Don't move," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat.

He grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the marble counter on either side of her hips. He loomed over her, caging her in, his shadow dancing against the cabinets as the fire crackled behind him.

"You said you wanted the noise, babe. You said you wanted to live the lyrics," he hissed, his face inches from hers, his breath hot and smelling of the whiskey he’d sipped earlier. "Well, this is the part where the music stops and everybody just watches."

He released one of her wrists, but only so he could point a finger at the wet, swollen center he had just vacated.

"Touch yourself," he ordered. The words were a filthier, darker version of the commands he gave from a stage. "Right now. I want to see exactly what you do when I'm not the one doing it to you."

Cleo’s eyes were wide, dazed, and shimmering with tears, her breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. She looked like she was vibrating from the sudden lack of friction.

"Do it," he growled, his hand moving to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair to force her to look down at herself. "Use your fingers. Show me how much you want it. But listen to me, Cleo—"

He leaned in, biting the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a sadistic, razor-thin whisper.
"If you come... if you let yourself slip before I tell you you're allowed to... I'm walking out of this kitchen and leaving you here to finish alone. Do you understand? You work it until you’re screaming, but you don't cross that line until I say so."

He pulled back just enough to watch, his hand remaining in her hair to keep her head tilted, his gaze fixed on her trembling hand as it moved toward her own heat.

"Start. Now."

The sudden absence of his body left her shivering, the cool air of the kitchen hitting her bare skin everywhere. She felt completely exposed—stripped raw not just of her clothes, which were long gone from the equation, but of her pride.

She didn't hesitate. She didn't fight him. Because the truth was, he didn’t know the half of it.

There had been so many nights—lonely, quiet nights in the crushing silence of her own bedroom while he was thousands of miles away on tour—where she had done exactly this. Nights where she had stared at the ceiling, pressed her hand to her body, and conjured the ghost of his hands just to settle the hollow ache in her chest. She had whispered his name into the pillow then, imagining his eyes, his weight, just trying to feel close to him when the distance felt impossible.

So she did what he asked. It wasn't hard. It was instinct.

Her hand trembled as she slid it down her stomach, gliding over her bare skin directly to the wet heat between her legs. She let out a broken, shaky breath as her fingers made contact, sliding into the slickness he had left behind.

She watched her own hand move, forced by his grip in her hair, but her focus drifted up to him through her lashes. He was growling, he was threatening to leave, he was wearing the mask of the dangerous, untouchable rockstar... but she saw him.

Beneath the jagged edge of his voice and the darkness in his eyes, that was still her Benjamin. It didn't matter what persona he had going on, or how rough he wanted to play it. He was the man who held her together. And if he wanted to watch her fall apart for him, she would give him everything.

"Ben..." she whimpered, her fingers starting a rhythm that was agonizingly familiar, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves that was already swollen and begging for release. Her hips lifted off the marble to meet her own touch, seeking the friction. "Like this? Is this... is this what you want?"

Every stroke sent a jolt of electricity straight to her spine. It was infinitely more intense with his eyes burning into her, tracking every movement. She bit her lip so hard she tasted copper, fighting the urge to speed up, fighting the wave that was already cresting, terrified he would actually leave if she went over the edge too soon.

"Please," she gasped, her head falling back against his hand, her eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure coiled tight and painful in her belly. "Don't leave... I'm doing it... I'm doing it for you."

Cleo shifted her weight, scooting her hips further back on the cool marble until her back was pressed flat against the backsplash. She needed the leverage; she needed to open herself up completely for him.

She never broke eye contact. Even as her breath hitched in her throat, her gaze remained locked on his, challenging him, submitting to him, worshipping him.

With a slow, deliberate movement, she slid two fingers deep inside herself. The sound was wet and sharp in the quiet kitchen, and she saw Ben’s jaw tighten, a muscle feathering beneath his skin. It wasn’t enough—it wasn’t him—but the stretch felt good, grounding her in the moment.

She bit her bottom lip, dragging her teeth over the sensitive skin, and then, watching his pupils dilate, she added a third finger.

She gasped, her head falling back slightly before she forced it forward again to keep looking at him. She pumped her hand, twisting her wrist to hit that deep, aching spot he had been battering just moments ago. She was stretching herself wide for him, showing him exactly how empty she was without him.

"Is that it?" she breathed, her voice wrecked. "You like watching me like this?"

She kept the rhythm steady—relentless but controlled. She could feel the edge hovering right there, a terrifying, beautiful precipice, but she dug her heels into the counter and held herself back. She didn't want the release yet. Not really. She wanted to know what kind of ruin he was planning to bring down on her next. She wanted him to finish what he started.

His self-control was a frayed wire, sparking and ready to snap. Watching her use her own hand to stretch herself open—seeing the way her fingers disappeared into that wet, slick heat while her eyes never left his—was the most obscene and beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Yeah," he rasped, his voice a guttural scrape of sound. "I like it. I like knowing that even when you touch yourself, you’re looking for me."

He didn't move away. Instead, he reached down, his own hand finding his cock. He gripped himself, his knuckles white as he began to stroke in a heavy, rhythmic pace that matched the wet sounds of her fingers. He watched her watch him, the shared gaze turning the air in the kitchen into something thick and suffocating.

He was throbbing, a hard, demanding ache that wanted to punish her, but he stayed back. He stayed in the audience for a few more agonizing seconds, his hand moving faster on himself, his breath coming in jagged, harsh hitches.

"You’re doing so good, babe," he murmured, his eyes tracking the way she worked her own body. "Stay right there. Don't you dare let go."

Abruptly, he stopped. He forced his hand away from his own body, the denial making his jaw ache. He leaned over, his reach long and steady, and twisted the knob on the stove. The blue flame beneath the soup hissed and died, the sudden silence of the burner making the crackle of the fireplace in the next room sound like an explosion.

He didn't want the kitchen anymore. He didn't want the marble. He wanted the heat.
"Down," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl.

He didn't wait for her to move. He gripped her waist and hauled her off the counter. Her feet barely hit the floor before he was dragging her toward the living area, his hand locked around hers. He led her to the hearth, where the fire he had built earlier was roaring, casting long, flickering orange shadows against the timber walls.

The rug was thick and soft, a stark contrast to the unforgiving kitchen. He pushed her down onto it, but he didn't let her lie back.

"On your hands and knees," he ordered, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive stage-whisper. "Face the fire."

He waited until she complied, her body silhouetted against the gold and red of the flames. From behind, she looked like a dream—the curve of her spine, the dip of her waist, the way she was still trembling from the forced restraint.

He knelt behind her, his knees bracketed on either side of her hips. He didn't enter her. Instead, he leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his heat engulfing her. He reached around, his hands finding her breasts, squeezing them with a possessive, bruising force while he bit the sensitive skin of her shoulder.

"We’re not going slow anymore," he hissed into her ear, his breath hot and demanding. "But we’re not finishing yet, either. I’m going to make you climb until your lungs burn."

He reached down, his hand guiding him to her entrance, slicking himself with the moisture she’d left on her own fingers. He pushed in—not a thrust, but a slow, agonizingly deep slide that felt like he was claiming every inch of her territory.

"Keep your hands on the floor," he growled, his hips starting a slow, grinding circle that was designed to torture. "Don't touch yourself. Just feel me. Feel exactly how much of a mess I'm making of you."

He began to move—a heavy, rhythmic pace that was deep and deliberate. Every time he drove forward, he leaned his weight into her, forcing her closer to the heat of the fire, making her world narrow down to the smell of woodsmoke and the feel of him filling her up.

The firelight danced over her skin, turning her into something molten and gold. From this angle, she was a map of everything he owned—the arch of her back, the curve of her hips, and the way her hair spilled forward toward the hearth. He felt the vibration of her whimpers against his chest as he slid home, the friction of her heat clamping around him like a vice.

He was deep, buried to the hilt, but he wanted more. He wanted her to feel the sharp edge of his hunger.

He pulled back, almost entirely out of her, the cold air rushing into the space between them for a split second before his hand moved.

Crack.

The sound of his palm meeting the soft, pale curve of her ass was sharp, echoing over the roar of the logs in the fireplace. It was a stinging, stinging heat that matched the fire in front of her. Before she could even gasp, his fingers sank deep into the flesh he’d just struck, his large hand squeezing with a bruising, possessive force.

He used that grip to anchor her, his fingers digging in as he yanked her hips backward with a violent, sudden jerk, impaling her on him once again.

The impact made the air rush out of her in a broken, high-pitched cry. He didn't stop; he kept his hand there, squeezing and kneading her hip while he set a rhythm that was all power and no mercy. He was driving into her with a heavy, rhythmic thud, his body a hammer and hers the anvil.

"You’re not going anywhere, baby," he growled, his voice a low, vibrating grit against the shell of her ear as he watched her shadow flicker against the timber walls. "I’m going to keep you right here until the only thing you can taste is me."

The sharp, cracking sound of his palm connecting with her flesh was a shock to her system that shattered the hazy, drugged feeling of lust, replacing it with a spike of white-hot clarity. A sharp, fractured cry tore from her throat, involuntary and loud, echoing in the quiet cabin. The sting bloomed instantly across her skin, a burning heat that rivaled the fire in front of her, making her gasp for air that wouldn’t come.

Before she could even process the sensation, he yanked her hips back, and the sudden, brutal fullness of him claiming her again knocked the remaining breath from her lungs.

"Ben—!" she choked out, the name breaking apart on a sob.

The intensity of it was overwhelming. She felt pinned between two fires—the roaring hearth warming her face and chest, and the searing, demanding heat of his body possessing her from behind. As he established that punishing rhythm, driving into her with a force that shook her entire frame, she lost the ability to think. She could only feel.

Her head fell back, her neck arching and exposing her throat to the ceiling beams as she surrendered completely to the onslaught. With every heavy, jarring thrust, her body was thrown forward, her breasts swaying with the violent motion, the soft weight of them brushing the air before being pulled back as he anchored her hips. She felt heavy, loose, and completely at his mercy.

"Oh god, it’s too much—" she whimpered, the words dissolving into a series of high, desperate cries as he hit that deepest spot inside her, over and over again.

The pain from the spank throbbed in time with the friction, blurring the lines until she couldn’t tell where the sting ended and the pleasure began. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of sensation. She felt small and conquered, grounded by the rough wool of the rug under her knees and the bruising grip of his hands on her waist.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—not from sadness, but from the sheer, crushing weight of how much she needed this. She needed his roughness, his claim, the way he was making sure she couldn't possibly be anywhere else but right here, existing solely for him.

"Don't stop," she breathed, a frantic, broken plea, her fingers digging blindly into the thick pile of the rug. "Ben, please—wreck me."

Her elbows finally gave way, her strength sapped by the sheer intensity of the pleasure crashing through her. She sank down, her chest pressing flat against the thick rug, her cheek scraping against the scratchy wool. The movement tipped her pelvis, forcing her hips higher, lifting her backside into the air in a desperate, wanton arch that left her completely exposed to him.

The shift in angle changed everything.

Ben didn't adjust; he just took what she offered, driving into her with a newfound, terrifying depth. He hit a spot so deep inside her that her vision blurred, dragging a raw, jagged scream from her throat that echoed off the timber walls. It wasn't a moan; it was the sound of someone being taken apart.

"Oh god, Ben!" she wailed, the sound bordering on a sob.

The fullness was almost too much to bear. She felt stretched, filled to the absolute brink, the friction searing her insides with every heavy thrust. To keep from flying apart, her hands flew out, fingers clawing frantically into the deep pile of the carpet. She gripped the fibers until her knuckles turned white, holding on as if the floor was the only thing keeping her from shattering into a million pieces under his weight.

She was sobbing openly now, her body jerking with the force of his hips slamming against hers, her face wet with tears and sweat, grounded only by the rough wool under her cheek and the relentless, punishing rhythm of the man possessing her from behind.

He watched her shatter, and the sound of her sobbing his name into the wool rug snapped the last tether of his control.

He didn't want to just be inside her; he wanted to encompass her. He wanted to be the weight crushing her, the heat burning her, the only thing she could feel in the dark.

He didn't slow down. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her sweat-slicked back, sandwiching her between his body and the floor. He released her waist and slid his left hand up her spine, past her shoulders, until his fingers locked around the back of her neck.
He didn’t squeeze to choke; he squeezed to hold.

"You like that?" he growled into her ear, his voice a vibrating rumble against her skull. "You like being pinned down like this, babe?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He used his grip on her neck to force her face deeper into the rug, muffling her cries, while his hips snapped forward with a violence that shook them both. He was hitting her with a wet, heavy thud—bone against bone, skin against skin—grinding himself into her with a possessive fury.

He reached down with his free hand, grabbed her right wrist where it was clawing at the rug, and yanked her arm behind her back. He pinned it there against the small of her back, twisting it just enough to stretch her shoulder, just enough to make her gasp at the sudden, sharp tension.

He had her trapped. One arm pinned, neck held, hips anchored by his weight. She was completely helpless, purely a vessel for his pleasure, and the realization made his vision white-out with lust.

"Don't move," he hissed, biting down hard on the sensitive cord of muscle where her neck met her shoulder. He didn't hold back. He bit her hard enough to leave a bruise, marking her, branding her. "Take it. Take every fucking inch of it."

He felt her body spasm, her inner muscles clamping down on him in a terrified, electrified grip. It was too good. It was madness.

He pulled back, almost entirely out of her, dragging the tip of his cock along the sensitive nerve endings at her entrance, before slamming back in. He did it again. And again. Long, punishing strokes that stretched her open and filled her completely.

"You feel that?" he whispered hoarsely, his lips brushing her ear, wet and hot. "That’s me ruining you for anyone else. You think you can go back to being civilized after this? You think anyone else is ever going to touch you like I do?"

He tightened his grip on her wrist, forcing her hips to arch higher, exposing her even more.
"You’re mine," he snarled, the words tearing out of his throat. "Scream into the floor, baby. Scream it."

He abandoned all rhythm, driving into her with a chaotic, animalistic speed, fucking her with a brutality that promised he would burn this memory into her skin forever.

The coarse wool of the rug abraded her cheek, already slick with a steady, hot stream of tears, but the friction was nothing compared to the overwhelming weight of him crushing her into the floor. She felt small, fragile, and completely consumed. Every breath she tried to take was shallow, knocked out of her lungs by the heavy, rhythmic impact of his hips slamming against hers.

She couldn't stop the sobbing; it was a physical purge, her body unraveling under the sheer intensity of his possession. When he bit down on the sensitive cord of her neck, a fresh wave of tears leaked from her squeezed-shut eyes.

The pain was sharp and shocking, a brand that seared straight through to her core, but instead of pulling away, her body betrayed her. She melted further into the floor, her hips instinctively bucking back to meet his violence, desperate to be closer, to be deeper, to be exactly what he said she was—his.

His hand on her neck was a heavy, grounding anchor, and the twist of her arm behind her back left her feeling terrifyingly exposed, her chest pinned but her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. His words—ruining you—echoed in her head, louder than the blood rushing in her ears. He was right. The terrifying realization that no one else could ever reach this dark, feral place inside her made her sob harder, a broken, high-pitched keening sound muffled against the rug.

"I—I know," she choked out, though the words were lost in the wet fabric. She was trembling violently, every nerve ending on fire, caught in a suspended state of agony and ecstasy.

When he demanded she scream, the command bypassed her brain and went straight to her throat. The pressure built inside her chest, a mixture of surrender and devastation. As he drove into her with that final, chaotic speed, abandoning all control, she let go of the last shred of her civilized self.

"I'm yours!"

The scream ripped out of her, raw and guttural, tearing through her sobs. She screamed it into the floor, her voice cracking under the strain, her body convulsing as she poured every ounce of her submission into the sound, acknowledging the ruin, acknowledging the claim, shattering completely beneath him.

The scream scraped her throat raw, leaving a burning trail that matched the fire consuming the rest of her body. Admitting it out loud—screaming it into the abrasive wool—severed whatever fragile hold she had left on reality. She wasn't Cleo anymore; she was just sensation. She was just his.

She sobbed harder, her chest heaving against the floor, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. The tears were blinding, hot and relentless, mixing with the sweat dripping from her face. Every thrust he delivered now felt like it was rearranging her insides, jarring her teeth, shaking the very foundation of her bones.

Her arm, pinned tight against the small of her back, throbbed with a sharp ache that grounded her in the chaos. It was a constant reminder of her helplessness, a reminder that she couldn’t escape even if she wanted to—and god, she didn't want to.

"Please," she whimpered into the rug, the word broken and wet. She didn't even know what she was pleading for. For him to stop? For him never to stop? It was all a blur of white-hot intensity.

She felt herself tightening around him, her body betraying her need as the pressure built low in her belly. It wasn't a slow climb; it was a precipice she was being shoved off of. As he abandoned his rhythm for that final, chaotic brutality, the friction became too much.

"Oh god, oh god," she panted, her voice rising in pitch, turning into a desperate, broken cry.

The climax hit her like a physical blow. It started at the point of their connection and radiated outward, paralyzing her. Her toes curled into the carpet, her free hand clawing blindly at the fibers, trying to find purchase as the world spun. She squeezed her eyes shut, seeing stars behind her lids, her hips stuttering and clamping down on him in a series of violent, uncontrollable spasms.

She felt ruined. She felt unmade. And through the haze of the orgasm that racked her trembling frame, she sobbed his name again, a worshipful, shattered prayer into the floorboards.

The sound of her screaming his claim—I’m yours!—shattered the last barrier in his mind. It wasn't just a surrender; it was a total abdication of self, and the sheer weight of it snapped the tether of his control.

He felt her internal muscles clamping down on him, milking him in terrified, violent spasms, and the pleasure was so intense it bordered on agony. His vision went white. The roar of blood in his ears drowned out the fire.

He was seconds away.

His instinct was to bury himself as deep as possible, to pour himself into the heat that was convulsing around him. But a jagged shard of clarity pierced the haze—no protection.
With a guttural, strained roar, he gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the bruised flesh, and yanked himself backward.

The exit was harsh. The friction vanished in a split second, leaving a cold void where he had just been filling her.

He didn't stop moving. His hand moved frantically to himself, pumping once, twice, hard, before he unraveled.

He groaned, a broken, defeated sound, as he spilled his release across the small of her back. The hot spurts landed on her sweat-slicked skin, sliding down the curve of her spine, marking her in the most primitive way possible. His knees shook violently against the rug, his head dropping forward until his forehead rested against her shoulder blade, his breath sawing in and out of his lungs like he’d just run a marathon.

For a long minute, the only sounds in the cabin were the crackle of the logs and the harsh, synchronized gasping of their breath.

Then, the red mist began to recede.

Ben blinked, the adrenaline draining out of him, leaving his limbs heavy and trembling. His vision cleared, and the scene in front of him came into sharp focus.

He saw Cleo.

She was pressed face-first into the scratchy wool rug. Her body was shaking with silent sobs. Her skin was flushed and marked—the red handprint on her backside, the bruising grip on her hip, the mess he’d made on her lower back. And her arm... her arm was still pinned awkwardly behind her back where he had trapped it.

A wave of cold nausea washed over him, instantly extinguishing the fire in his blood.
"Shit," he breathed, the word trembling. "Shit, baby."

He scrambled back, his movements frantic and clumsy. He released her pinned wrist instantly, his hands hovering for a second, unsure of where to touch her that wouldn't hurt.
"Cleo," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I’m sorry. Hey, I’m right here."

He reached out, his touch feather-light now, a ghost of the force he’d used seconds ago. He brushed the hair away from her face, flinching when he saw the tears soaking the rug.
"I didn't mean to... I went too far," he murmured, guilt twisting in his gut.

He grabbed the black t-shirt he’d discarded earlier from the floor. With gentle, reverent hands, he wiped the mess from her back, cleaning her skin with careful strokes. He tossed the shirt aside and immediately reached for her, hooking his arms under her shoulders to lift her up.

She was limp, boneless, her head lolling against his chest as he pulled her backward into his lap. He sat back against the hearth, cradling her between his legs, pulling her back against his chest so he could wrap his arms completely around her.

"I've got you," he whispered into her hair, rocking her slightly. "I've got you, baby. You’re okay. I’m so sorry."

He pressed his face into the curve of her neck, right over the spot where he had bitten her. He saw the mark—angry and purple against her pale skin—and he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to it, trying to soothe the hurt away.

"I lost it," he admitted, his voice rough with emotion. He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, chafing warmth back into her skin, feeling the tremors slowly beginning to subside. "I just needed you so bad I stopped thinking. Are you okay? Talk to me, baby. Tell me I didn't break you."

The world was still tilting on its axis, a blur of firelight and the erratic thumping of Ben’s heart against her back. Cleo couldn't stop the tears; they were a physical reaction, a release valve for the overwhelming intensity that had just crashed through her system. When he pulled her back against his chest, enveloping her in his heat and scent, she didn't fight him. She melted into him, her body feeling heavy and overused, like a wire that had carried too much current.

His arm was a solid bar of iron wrapped around her front, holding her together when she felt like she might scatter apart. Instinctively, she brought her hands up, her fingers trembling as she hooked her arms over his forearm, anchoring herself to his strength. She needed that contact, needed to feel the tension in his muscles to know he was real, that they were back on solid ground.

With a ragged, hitching breath, she shifted her weight slightly to the left, trying to find a position that eased the sting on her skin. She curled inward, drawing her knees up high until they touched her chest, making herself small within the protective cage of his embrace.

Every inch of her was throbbing. A dull, pulsing ache radiated from her hips where his fingers had dug in, and deeper inside, she felt swollen and raw, her body still vibrating with the phantom echoes of his possession. It was a soreness that went bone-deep, a heavy, pulsing reminder of how completely he had just overwhelmed her.

She heard the panic in his voice, the raw fear that he had damaged her, and she forced her lungs to expand against the tightness in her chest. She swallowed the sob threatening to climb her throat.

"I’m okay," she finally spoke, the words coming out as a wet, broken whisper. She squeezed his arm, a weak reassurance, and let her head fall back against his shoulder. "I... I’m okay."

She couldn't get any more words out. The "I’m okay" had taken the last of her breath, and her throat felt too raw, too tight to force another sound past the lump sitting there.

Instead, she let her actions speak for her. She squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears squeezing out from the corners to track into her hairline, and simply breathed him in. The scent of him—musk, salt, and the faint, smoky cling of the fireplace—filled her nose, grounding her faster than any apology could.

She tightened her grip on his forearm, her fingers digging into his muscle just enough to show him she was present, that she wasn't broken. She felt the tremors still racking his body, vibrating against her back, and she hated that he was scared. She wanted to soothe him, but she was too drained to move, too heavy to do anything but exist in his hold.

She shifted her head, rubbing her cheek against the solid curve of his shoulder, nuzzling into the warmth of his skin. It was a silent plea for him to just hold her, to stop the apologies and just let the dust settle around them. The silence stretched, filled only by the crackling fire and the slow, stabilizing rhythm of their hearts beating against one another.