My Runaway Mafia Groom Wants Me Back
I answer with nails at his shoulders, with hips that meet him, with a throat that gives him his name like an oath.
He holds himself on a razor’s edge because I asked him to. I feel it in the quiver of muscle under my palm, in the way his breath fractures and reforms against my cheek. It’s heady, that control, and it’s a trust I never take lightly. I press my mouth to the corner of his and whisper, “Let go, baby.”
He does. The rhythm breaks into something ragged and real. I tip over first. Sharp, bright, the kind of release that blanks my mind and then floods it with color. He follows with a sound that crowns me with glory. We shake together, clinging to each other.