The Debt of Passion
Every touch was a confession.
When he slid inside her, slow and deep, their bodies locked into a rhythm that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with belonging. She clutched at his back, nails digging in, breath catching on a moan as he moved with devastating precision—each thrust a worship, each gasp a benediction.
He whispered her name against her throat, her jaw, her lips, like a mantra he couldn’t stop repeating. And when her body tensed beneath him, the pleasure rushing like fire through her veins, he didn’t let her fall alone.
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