They make my fucking blood boil.

But I focus on her, on this, on now.

I guide her under the spray of the shower, rolling up my sleeves, and grab my soap.

And then? I wash her.

Gently. Thoroughly. Completely.

I let my hands trail over her skin, washing away every reminder of what happened today, letting my fingers massage over her muscles, soothe her, until her breathing slows, until her body relaxes, until she's looking up at me like I'm the only anchor keeping her grounded.

And I am.

By the time we get out, she's soft, warm, loose-limbed. Water droplets cling to her eyelashes, her fuller curves glistening under the bathroom lights.

She lets me towel her off, lets me dress her in one of my shirts, lets me pull her into the kitchen and sit her on the counter while I cook her dinner. The sizzle of garlic and onions fills the air as I move around her kitchen, the knife rhythmically chopping through vegetables. She watches me, knees drawn up to her chest, the hem of my shirt barely covering her thighs.

I plate the pasta—simple but filling—and carry her to the bedroom. She doesn't even argue when I put on Bridgerton. Just leans into me, stealing bites of food off my plate, snuggling close as we watch, the silk sheets cool beneath us. Because before anything else? Before I fucking wreck her like I've been dying to do for weeks?

She needs to relax.

She needs to be okay.

And then?

Then she's mine.

She stays quiet, sipping her tea, watching the last few scenes of season two unfold on the TV mounted on her bedroom wall.

Finally, she looks at me. Like it’s costing her everything to hold back. Chest rising too fast, lips trembling with something unsaid. “Please?”

It's one word.

One tiny fucking word.

But it’s everything to me.

Instantly, I'm hard. I set my glass down and turn to her, my hand cupping her face, angling her up to me.

"Say it again," I murmur.

Her breath catches. Her thighs press together, the fabric of my shirt rustling. "Please," she breathes.

Fuck.

I lose it.

I grab her, caging her beneath me, rolling us so she's pinned, exactly where she belongs. My fingers trace her face, my thumb skimming her lips, my other hand bracing against the mattress beside her head. The bed dips beneath our weight, the sheets tangling around her bare legs.

"This," I whisper, my voice edged with pure fucking hunger. "This is what I've been waiting for."

Her hair fans across the pillow, breath catching, mouth parted in anticipation.

She watches me with those dark, hungry eyes, her body soft and yielding beneath mine. I take my time. I drag my fingers over her skin, tracing the delicate lines of her collarbone, the dip between her breasts, the curve of her hip. Her skin is like silk beneath my calloused fingers.

She shivers.

Her breath hitches.

She's so fucking beautiful.

I dip down, brushing my nose along the column of her throat, inhaling her, soaking her in.

She smells like my soap. My shirt. Mine.

She smells like mine.

I press soft, open-mouthed kisses along her neck, taking my time, teasing her, feeling the way she arches against me, desperate for more. She whimpers, and that sound? That sound does things to me. The vibration of it against my lips sends heat coiling through my body.

"Cal," she breathes.

I hum against her skin, nipping, licking, kissing, working my way lower, pushing up the hem of my shirt that she's wearing, exposing more of her skin. I run my tongue down the valley of her breasts, over her ribs, to the curve of her stomach. Her skin tastes faintly sweet.

She's so soft, so perfect, and I want to devour her. I grip her thighs, spreading them apart, and she gasps, her fingers fisting in the sheets. The fabric bunches beneath her grip.

"You're so fucking perfect," I murmur against her skin, dragging my mouth over her hip, over the sensitive spot at the crease of her thigh.

She shudders, her legs trembling around me. I press a kiss there.

Slow. Gentle.

Her breath shakes.

"Cal..."

I chuckle, my grip tightening, holding her open for me. Her arousal fills my senses, making my mouth water.

"So desperate," I murmur.

She whines, and I fucking love that sound. I trail my fingers up her inner thigh, slow, teasing, tracing light circles over the fabric of her panties. The lace is damp beneath my touch. "Want me to touch you, pretty girl?"

She nods frantically, her hips arching, seeking more.

I don't give it to her.

Not yet.

I pull back slightly, watching her. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her breasts straining against the thin fabric of my shirt.

"Tell me how much you want it."

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't hesitate.

"More than anything."

Fuck.

That's all it takes.

I slide my fingers under her panties, feeling how drenched she is, and a groan rips from my chest. "So wet for me," I murmur.

She gasps as I press my thumb against her clit, circling it, teasing, feeling the way she shakes beneath me. Her hips buck against my hand, seeking more pressure.

I love this.

Love making her fall apart.

Love knowing she's mine to ruin.

I grip her tighter, holding her down.

She's so fucking sensitive.

She grabs my wrist.

Stops me.

I still instantly, studying her. She's not stopping me because she doesn't want it. She's stopping me because she wants more.

"I need you," she breathes, her voice husky with desire.

Fuck.

I grip her chin. "You have me," I murmur.

She swallows hard, her eyes wide, vulnerable, and so fucking sure. "No, Cal. I need you inside me. Now."

My cock fucking throbs. I exhale slowly, trying to hold on to the last shred of control I have left.

"You know I'm not gonna be gentle, right?"

"I don't want you to be."

Fuck.

I crash my mouth to hers, owning her, taking her, my hands gripping, exploring, claiming. She moans into my mouth, wrapping her legs around me, pulling me closer, tighter. Her lips are soft, yielding, but demanding at the same time.

Then she whispers against my lips, "I'm on birth control."

I pause, then I chuckle darkly. "I know."

She laughs breathlessly, pulling back to look at me, her cheeks flushed. "Of course you do," she murmurs, rolling her eyes.

I run my hands over her hips, gripping her tight. The fullness of her curves fits perfectly in my palms. "Gotta keep my pretty girl safe."

She bites her lip, eyes flicking down, her thighs squeezing. I push my boxers down, letting my cock spring free, and her breath catches. She looks up at me, eyes dark, needy.

"Cal," she breathes.

I growl, gripping her hips, pulling her under me.

She shudders.

Then I thrust into her, and we both break. I thrust into her deep and hard, and she gasps, her nails digging into my back, dragging down my skin as she arches beneath me. The sting of her nails against my skin only drives me deeper.

"Fuck, Izzy."

She cries out, her legs locking around me, her thighs squeezing, her body clenching around my cock. The headboard knocks against the wall with the force of my thrust.

She's so fucking tight.

So fucking perfect.

I pull back, almost all the way out, watching her eyes go wide, her mouth parting on a soft, desperate whimper.

I slam back in, bottoming out, burying myself inside her, stretching her open, claiming her exactly how she wants me to. She lets out a broken, breathless moan, her head tipping back against the pillows. I grip her chin, forcing her to look at me.