Marcus entered her with a slow, reverent thrust, his body trembling with restraint. Samantha's back arched as she accepted him, inch by inch, her breath catching in her throat at the sheer stretch and heat of him. It wasn't just the physical closeness—it was the weight of everything they had survived, everything they had denied, now crashing down between them in one endless, all-consuming moment.
He stilled, buried deep, his forehead pressed to hers. They breathed together, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
"This," she whispered. "I've needed this."
"Me too," he breathed. "You… I never stopped."
And then he moved—slow at first, a rhythm that wasn't about lust but about recognition. Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, anchoring him to her as his hips rolled with practiced precision. Every glide brought him deeper, closer, and she could feel herself unraveling again already, the lingering aftershocks of her earlier climax blending with this new, molten rise.
