Page 209 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“There,” I whispered, because apparently, I had learned one useful thing about undoing him and wanted credit immediately.

His forehead dropped to mine. “You’re pleased with yourself.”

“Extremely.”

His laugh was low and unsteady. Then his hand covered mine, guiding the rhythm for only a moment before he stopped us both with visible effort.

He opened the drawer in the bedside table, found protection, and paused long enough that I touched his face.

“Still me,” I said.

His eyes lifted.

“Still okay,” I added.

Something in him eased and tightened at once.

He kissed me again while he rolled the condom on, then settled between my thighs. The weight of him there made the room tilt. His chest brushed mine. His arm slid beneath my shoulder, bringing me closer instead of holding himself above me like I might break. I wrapped my legs around his hips, feeling the heat and strength of him, the careful restraint in every muscle.

When he slid inside me, he went completely still.

His forehead pressed to mine, breath rough, one hand gripping the sheets hard enough to whiten his knuckles. I understood that this wasn’t casual for him. He felt the consequence of it, the promise inside the wanting, and somehow that made me ache so much more.

I touched his face. “Rafe.”

His eyes opened.

I had seen him angry. Amused. Terrified for me. Dragon. Man. Heir. Client. The severe stranger who had once demanded a necklace from my throat.

This was something else.

Or maybe this was all of him without the armor.

“I love you,” I whispered.

He moved then.

Slowly at first, careful of my tired body. The first stroke made me close my eyes. The second made me dig my fingers into his back. By the third, I was pulling him closer with my legs, asking without words for more of his weight, more of the drag and heat and pressure of him.

His restraint changed into passion.

The care stayed, but the leash on his wanting loosened. His hips moved with more certainty. His mouth found mine, then my jaw, then the corner of my eye when the pleasure grew so sharp it turned emotional. I laughed once because it was too much and somehow not enough, and he smiled against my skin as if the sound had done something irreversible to him.

His hand slid beneath my hip, angling me up, and the next thrust made both of us groan. Rafe held me as if he had spent his whole life being careful and had finally found something worth the risk of wanting.

The second time, pleasure came slower and deeper. It built through every place he touched me: his hand at my hip, his mouth at my throat, his body moving inside mine with increasing loss of control. I could feel him trying to wait for me. The effort in his jaw. The tremor in his shoulders. The way his breath turned uneven each time I tightened around him.

“Rafe,” I said, and this time I didn’t hide the sound.

His control broke enough for me to feel it.

His hand was gripping my thigh as he moved with me, his mouth against my ear, my name a low, broken sound in his throat. I came again with my face turned into his neck, no hand over my mouth this time, no dignity left to defend. He followed a moment later, burying his face into my shoulder, his body going rigid over mine as my name broke from him like he had been keeping it locked behind his teeth for weeks.

He lowered himself carefully, keeping his weight from crushing me while still covering me enough that I felt surrounded. His breath warmed my neck. My hand moved over his back without conscious permission, tracing the muscles there, the small marks my nails had left, the living proof that he had been real under my hands.

For once, I didn’t try to make myself useful.

I didn’t reach for my phone. I didn’t apologize for taking up space. I didn’t calculate the cost of the sheets, the room, the future, the heartbreak waiting around any corner if life decided to be life.