The sound was a physical thing, a sharp, wet gasp that pierced the quiet of the house and found Nobu in the dark of the office. It wasn't the first. For an hour, a low, rhythmic misery had been drifting down the short hallway from the master suite—a muffled sob, a hitched inhale, the rustle of sheets. He'd lain on the cramped daybed, fists clenched at his sides, the fine cotton of his sleep pants feeling like a cage. Each sound was a tiny hook in his chest, pulling, pulling.
After the quiet, fragile dinner of lasagna and bourbon hot chocolate, Sari had retreated to the bedroom, exhausted and hurting. He had hoped the alcohol and the heat would let her sleep through the night. He had been wrong.
This sound was different. It was a raw, open-throated cry of pain that ended in a whimper. It tore through him.
He was moving before the echo faded, his feet finding the cool wooden floorboards. He didn't bother with a shirt. The soft grey pants were the only concession to modesty as he strode down the shadowed hallway, the moonlight through the tall windows painting stripes across his path. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs, not from arousal, but from a helpless, furious anguish. He stopped before the heavy oak door, his hand hovering over the polished brass handle.
Another sniffle, wet and ragged. A soft, pained curse. "God, please…"
He turned the handle. It gave without resistance, unlocked.
The room was bathed in the soft blue glow of a digital clock and the faint ambient light from the en suite bathroom. Sari was a tight, trembling coil in the center of the vast bed, the white duvet tangled around her legs. A cord snaked from under the covers to the heating pad she had brought from the kitchen, its little red light a malevolent eye on her abdomen. Her back was to him, shoulders hunched, one arm wrapped fiercely around her stomach.
"Sari?" His voice was rough, unused.
She flinched, then slowly, painfully, rolled onto her back to look at him. Her face was a pale moon in the gloom, tear tracks gleaming on her cheeks. Her eyes, usually so bright and clever, were wide pools of suffering. She didn't speak. She just looked at him, and in that look was a silent, desperate plea that shattered whatever remained of his composure.
He crossed the room in three strides and climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He didn't ask permission. He gathered her, duvet and all, into his arms, pulling her back against his chest. She was stiff for a moment, a statue of pain, then her body yielded with a shuddering sigh. She buried her face in the crook of his arm, her hot tears immediately soaking his skin.
"It hurts," she whispered, the words mangled. "Nobu, it hurts. The hot chocolate wore off. I don't… I don't remember the cysts ever being like this."
He held her tighter, his chin resting on the crown of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and the salt of her tears. "I know," he murmured, though he didn't, not really. He could only feel the tremors wracking her frame, the way her muscles were locked in a brutal fist around her core. "I'm here."
"It's like… a fist," she gasped, her hand pressing over his where it lay on her stomach. "Squeezing and twisting. It won't stop."
A theory, cold and unwelcome, settled in his gut. They had spent the first two weeks in Hokkaido entirely separated, starving themselves, only to spend the final two weeks in a state of hungry, frantic, physical obsession. Their bodies had spoken a language of pure need, ignoring everything else. To go from that kind of intense, daily release to absolute, freezing celibacy for an entire month had shocked her system.
"Sari," he said, his voice low. "Your cycle. Is it… has it been normal since we got back?"
She went still in his arms. Then a short, bitter laugh escaped her. "No. It's been… heavier. And this." She pressed his hand harder against her, as another cramp seized her. Her body arched, a silent scream tightening every muscle. "Fuck," she hissed through clenched teeth.
Guilt, thick and acidic, flooded his throat. "The intense sexual activity we had at the end of the honeymoon. It changes blood flow. It changes hormones. And then we've been completely celibate for a month. Your body doesn't understand what's happening. God, I'm so sorry."
"Don't," she whimpered, her head shaking against his chest. "Don't be sorry for that. But this… I can't… I need it to stop."
She was begging again, and the sound was worse than the cry. It was a surrender. Nobu stared into the dark, his mind racing down a dark, singular path. He'd read other things, too. In the blurry, desperate research of a man in love with a woman in pain. About endorphins. About natural pain relief.
He hated the part of him that immediately seized on the idea. It felt predatory, selfish, to think of sex when she was like this. But watching her suffer was an agony he couldn't bear.
"Sari," he said, his mouth close to her ear. The words felt dangerous, hanging in the air between them. "There might… There might be a way to ease it. Not a cure. To take the edge off."
She was listening. Her breathing, shallow and quick, slowed a fraction.
"Orgasms," he said, the clinical word feeling absurd in the intimate dark. "They release… chemicals in the brain. It can help with pain. Cramps."
A long silence. He felt her process it, the idea weaving through the haze of her discomfort. "Orgasm," she repeated, the word a dry whisper. "I can't even think straight. How could I possibly…"
"You don't have to think," he interrupted, his arms tightening around her. "You don't have to do a thing. Let me. Let me try to help you. Mouth, fingers, my body… whatever you can stand. Whatever feels good. Let me give them to you. As many as you need. Until the pain lets go."
The offer hung there, immense and intimate. It wasn't about passion, not in the way they'd known in the past. It was something else—a medical, desperate, deeply carnal form of care.
She turned her head, her tear-damp cheek sliding against his pectoral. Her eyes searched his face in the dim light, looking for the shadow of ulterior motive, for the gleam of opportunistic lust. All she saw was his pain for her, etched into the lines around his eyes, the tense set of his jaw.
A fresh wave of cramping twisted through her, and she cried out, her fingers digging into his forearm. "Yes," she gasped, the decision ripped from her by the spasm. "Yes. Anything. Please, Nobu. Make it stop."
That was all he needed. A shift occurred, immediate and profound. The helpless lover vanished, replaced by a man with a singular, focused mission. He moved her gently, laying her back against the pillows. He pulled the duvet down, exposing her. She wore only a thin, ivory-colored camisole, the fabric damp with sweat at her neckline. Her legs were bare.
"Just lie back," he murmured, his voice now a soft command. "Try to breathe. Tell me if anything makes it worse."
He started where he was, his hands returning to her abdomen, but with a new purpose. His palms were large and warm. He began to massage the tense, knotted flesh, not with a lover's caress, but with a deep, deliberate pressure, seeking out the clenched muscles beneath her skin. He worked in slow circles, his thumbs pressing along the crest of her hip bones.
Sari let out a shaky breath, her eyes closing. "That's… that's good. It's deep."
"Good," he echoed. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth. His lips were dry and warm. It was a kiss of comfort, but as his mouth traveled to the sensitive line of her jaw, down the column of her throat, the intention began to change subtly. He was mapping her, reminding her body of pleasure's pathways.
His hands continued their work on her belly, but one began to drift lower, his fingers skating over the hem of her camisole, then beneath it. He found the soft, hot skin of her inner thigh. She jumped at the first touch, a reflex, but then her legs fell open a little, a silent invitation.
He took it. His fingers traced higher, through the soft curls, finding her folds. She was slick, but it was a different slickness—not the gushing readiness of arousal, but the body's natural state, amplified by her cycle. He didn't hesitate. He circled her entrance, then slid a single finger inside, slowly, watching her face.
Her eyes flew open. A sharp gasp, but not of pain. Her back arched slightly off the mattress. "Oh."
"Okay?" he asked, his finger pausing, buried to the knuckle inside her warm, clinging heat.
"Yes," she breathed. "It's… full. It distracts."
That was the goal. He began to move his finger, a slow, in-and-out glide, while the pad of his thumb sought and found her clitoris. He didn't play, not yet. He just pressed, a steady, insistent pressure right at the apex of her sex.
A low moan vibrated in her chest, her head tipping back. Her hands, which had been fisted in the sheets, came up to clutch at his shoulders. "Don't stop."
He had no intention of stopping. He added a second finger, stretching her gently, the delicious burn of it making her cry out. His thumb began to move in tiny, precise circles, the rhythm counterpoint to the deep, penetrating thrust of his fingers. He watched her face, a study in shifting sensation. The pinched lines of pain around her eyes began to soften, giving way to a dazed, focused intensity. Her mouth fell open, her breathing becoming ragged, syncopated with the motion of his hand.
"The pain…" she whispered, wonder in her voice. "It's… fading. It's there, but it's behind a wall. You're building a wall."
"Good," he growled, the first hint of his own hunger bleeding into his voice. He bent his head, capturing her mouth with his. This kiss was not soft. It was deep and claiming, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with hers, swallowing her moans. He poured every ounce of his helpless desire to fix this, to own her pain and dismantle it, into that kiss.
She kissed him back with a sudden, frantic need, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. The taste of her tears was still on her lips, salt and sorrow, but underneath it was the burgeoning flavor of her own slickness on his fingers, a musky, vital promise.
He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth down her throat, over the lace edge of her camisole. He took a peaked nipple into his mouth through the thin fabric, sucking hard, his tongue lashing it. She cried out, her hips lifting off the bed to meet his driving fingers.
"Nobu, I'm… It's coming," she panted, her voice tight with a new kind of tension. "Oh god…"
"Let go, baby," he commanded against her breast. He curled his fingers inside her, finding that spongy, textured spot, and pressed, rubbing relentlessly. His thumb's circles became frantic, a dizzying orbit.
Her body went rigid. A sound tore from her throat, raw and guttural, utterly unlike her usual climax cries. It was a release of pain as much as pleasure. Her inner muscles clamped around his fingers in a series of fierce, rhythmic pulses, milking them. She shook, her thighs trembling violently, her heels digging into the mattress. He held her through it, his hand a steady anchor inside her as the waves crashed over her.
When the last tremor subsided, she collapsed back, boneless, a sheen of new sweat on her skin. Her eyes were closed, her chest heaving. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. They were clearer. The glassy sheen of agony was gone. "It worked," she murmured, awe in her voice. "The fist… it's unclenched."
A profound relief washed through him, so strong it made his own knees weak. But his mission wasn't over. "One is just a start," he said, his voice thick. He withdrew his fingers, glistening in the low light, and brought them to his mouth, tasting her without breaking eye contact. Her flavor—complex, earthy, uniquely her—flooded his senses. "The wall needs to be higher. Thicker."
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, watching him taste her, and a fresh, hot blush spread across her chest. The dynamic had shifted again. The clinical edge was melting, replaced by a smoky, deliberate carnality.
"How?" she asked, her voice a husk.
"My turn to distract you," he said, and his voice was pure dark velvet.
He moved down her body with a predator's grace, pushing her camisole up to her ribs, exposing her belly, her hips. He kissed a trail down her sternum, over her quivering abdomen, his tongue dipping into her navel. He hooked his hands under her knees, pushing her legs wider, opening her completely to his gaze, to the cool air of the room, to him.
She was beautiful here, swollen and glistening, the evidence of her release coating her inner thighs. He didn't speak. He lowered his head and put his mouth on her.
The first touch of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke from her entrance all the way up to her clitoris. Sari jolted as if electrocuted, a sharp cry echoing in the room. He didn't let her adjust. He dove in, his approach not just hungry, but consuming. This was no gentle tease. He ate her like a man starving, like her pleasure was the only sustenance he required.
He used the flat of his tongue to lap at her, gathering her wetness, then focused the tip on her clitoris. He circled it, fast, then slow, then flicked it side-to-side with rapid, tiny strokes. He sucked the little bud into his mouth, applying a gentle, rhythmic pressure that made her back bow off the bed.
"Oh, god, your mouth," she sobbed, her hands flying to his head. Her fingers twisted in his dark hair, not pushing him away, but holding him there, anchoring herself to the exquisite torture.
He groaned against her, the vibration traveling through her core, a second layer of sensation. He slid two fingers back inside her, pumping slowly, deeply, as his tongue continued its devastating work. He could feel her body beginning to coil again, tighter and tighter, the pain a distant memory now, obliterated by the sheer sensory overload.
He changed his rhythm, his tongue tracing frantic, nonsensical patterns before zeroing back in with laser precision. He added a third finger, stretching her beautifully, the faint burn making her gasp. He fucked her with his hand, his palm grinding against her with each thrust, while his mouth worshipped her clit.
"Nobu, I can't… it's too much… I'm going to…" Her words were fragments, torn from her by the rising tide.
He pulled his mouth away just for a second, his breath hot on her wet flesh. "Look at me," he demanded, his voice ragged.
Her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with passion, found his. He held her gaze as he lowered his mouth again, as he drew her entire clitoris into the heat of his mouth and sucked, hard, while his fingers pressed deep and curled.
It shattered her. Her climax was a silent, screaming thing for a second before the sound broke free—a long, wailing cry that seemed to drain her of every ounce of breath. Her body convulsed, her thighs clamping around his head, her hips bucking wildly against his face. He rode it out, drinking her in, his tongue softening to gentle, lapping strokes as the violent pulses subsided into delicate flutters around his fingers.
She was limp, utterly spent, floating in a haze of endorphins. He carefully withdrew his fingers and crawled back up her body, lying beside her, gathering her shaking form against him. He was painfully hard, the evidence pressing against her hip, but he ignored it. This was for her.
She turned her face into his neck, her lips moving against his skin. "The pain is… gone. It's just a dull ache. Like a memory." She tilted her head up, her eyes searching his. "You did that. You took it away."
He kissed her forehead, his own heart still hammering. "I'd do anything to take your pain."
A slow, sensual smile touched her lips, the first real smile he'd seen all night. Her hand, which had been lying on his chest, drifted down, over the hard planes of his stomach, until her fingers brushed the straining fabric of his sleep pants. "My turn," she whispered, her voice regaining a hint of its old mischief. "Your distraction worked a little too well. I need to return the favor."
Her hand was a brand through the thin fabric of his sleep pants, a gentle, curious pressure that made every muscle in his body lock. The air, thick with the scent of sex and salt and her, seemed to crystallize around them. He could feel the dampness of her release on his thigh, the slick evidence of his own success, and now her fingers were tracing the rigid length of him, a slow, exploratory stroke that stole his breath.
"Sari," he managed, the word a rough scrape in his throat. The mission had been for her. The focus, the control, the relentless drive to give her pleasure—it had been a fortress against his own need. Now, with her pain a dull memory and her eyes gleaming with something other than suffering, the fortress walls trembled. "You don't have to."
Her smile deepened, a ghost of the playful woman he'd fallen for. "I know I don't have to." Her fingers curled, applying a firmer, more deliberate pressure that drew a low groan from him. "I want to. You built a wall. Let me… let me thank the architect."
The logic was absurd, sensual, and utterly irresistible. He watched as she pushed herself up on one elbow, wincing only slightly as the movement tugged at the lingering ache in her core. Her other hand joined the first, both now working to untie the drawstring of his pants. Her movements were slow, a little clumsy with residual exhaustion and the lingering haze of her climaxes, but determined. The knot gave way. She pushed the soft grey fabric down over his hips, just enough to free him.
The cool air of the room was a shock against his heated skin. He was fully, achingly erect, the tip already glistening. Her gaze dropped, and her lips parted on a soft, indrawn breath. She'd seen him, felt him inside her many times in the past month, but this felt different. It was a study, an appreciation in the aftermath of vulnerability.
"You're so beautiful like this," she murmured, her voice husky. "All for me."
Her hand wrapped around him, her fingers not quite meeting. Her skin was cool at first, then quickly warmed. She gave an experimental stroke, base to tip, her thumb smearing the moisture there. The sensation was so intense, so focused after the diffuse attention he'd poured into her, that his hips jerked involuntarily.
"Easy," she whispered, but it was a tease, not a caution. She leaned down, her hair falling in a dark curtain that tickled his stomach. He felt her breath first, a warm puff against the most sensitive part of him. Then the wet, soft heat of her tongue, a single, slow lick from root to crown.
A curse, guttural and raw, tore from him. His hands fisted in the sheets. "Sari."
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight through his cock to his spine. Then she took him into her mouth.
It wasn't the skilled, deep-throated act of a porn fantasy. It was hesitant, exploratory, and a little awkward. She could only take about half of him before her body protested, a reminder of her own sensitivity. But what she did, she did with a devastating, focused sensuality. Her lips formed a tight, hot seal. Her tongue swirled around the head, lapping at the slit, then flattened against the sensitive underside. Her hand worked the length she couldn't accommodate, her strokes matching the slow, sucking pull of her mouth.
Nobu's head fell back against the pillow, and a strangled sound caught in his chest. He was unravelling, the careful control he'd maintained for the last hour dissolving under the tender, earnest assault of her mouth. He forced his eyes open, needing to see. The sight was his undoing. She, curled against his hip, her cheek hollowed with effort, her eyes closed in concentration. A strand of dark hair stuck to her damp temple. She was the picture of devoted service, and it was the most erotic thing he'd ever witnessed.
His hand came up, almost of its own volition, and buried itself in her hair. Not to guide or force, but to anchor himself, to feel the connection. She moaned around him at the touch, the sound vibrating through his very core, and her pace increased minutely. Her free hand drifted to his balls, cupping them gently, her fingers tracing the delicate skin behind.
The pleasure was a white-hot coil, winding tighter and tighter in his gut. It was too much, too soon after the emotional intensity of caring for her. He was hurtling towards the edge with a terrifying lack of control.
"Sari, wait," he gasped, his voice strained. "I'm too close. I don't want to… not like this."
She released him with a soft, wet pop, her lips swollen and glistening. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and questioning. "Not like what?"
"Not in your mouth. Not when I haven't… I need to be inside you." The admission was stark, a primal need laid bare. He needed the connection, the proof that the wall he'd built against her pain could become a bridge to something shared. "I need to feel you."
Her expression softened, understanding dawning. She crawled up his body, her movements fluid now, the last vestiges of cramping forgotten in a new purpose. She straddled his hips, her weight settling on his thighs. The thin ivory camisole was rucked up around her ribs, her breasts swaying with the motion. Her sex, swollen and glistening, hovered just above his aching cock.
"Then feel me," she said, and her voice held a new kind of authority.
She reached between them, her hand wrapping around him again, guiding him to her entrance. She was so wet, so ready, the slick heat of her a palpable promise. She positioned him, the broad head nudging against her folds. Then, holding his gaze, she began to sink.
It was a slow, inexorable claiming—an inch, then two. The fit was exquisite, a tight, velvety clasp that made them both gasp. Her internal muscles, still fluttering softly from her earlier releases, gripped him like a silken fist. Her eyes fluttered shut, her head tipping back as she took more of him, her body stretching to accommodate his girth.
"God, Sari," he breathed, his hands flying to her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He wanted to thrust, to bury himself to the hilt in one desperate move, but he held still, letting her set the pace. This was her ride. Her thank you—her reclamation.
She took her time, lowering herself with a torturous, millimeter-by-millimeter slowness that was pure agony and ecstasy. He could feel every ridge, every pulse of her inner walls. He watched the play of emotions on her face—concentration, wonder, a dawning, deep-seated pleasure that had nothing to do with pain relief. When she was fully seated, buried to the root inside her, she went still, letting out a long, shuddering sigh of pure completion.
"There," she whispered, as if she'd found a missing piece of herself.
She began to move. It started as a gentle roll of her hips, a circular grinding that rubbed her clitoris against his pubic bone. The sensation for her was immediate; her breath caught, her eyelids fluttering. For him, it was a deep, grinding fullness that threatened to shatter his control right then. He helped her, his hands on her hips guiding her into a slow, rocking rhythm.
The pace built gradually, organically. Her gentle rocks became purposeful lifts and sinks. She rose, almost letting him slip free, then plunged back down, taking him deep. A soft slap of skin meeting skin began to punctuate the quiet room, syncopated with their ragged breathing.
Nobu's world narrowed to the points of connection: the hot, tight clutch of her body around his cock, the dig of her knees into the mattress on either side of his hips, the feel of her damp camisole under his palms as he slid his hands up her sides. He pushed the fabric up further, over her breasts, needing to see her. She helped him, pulling it over her head and tossing it aside. Her breasts were full, tipped with tight, dark peaks. He cupped one, his thumb brushing over the nipple, and she cried out, her rhythm stuttering.
"Don't stop," he urged, his voice a dark rumble. "Keep going. Use me. Take what you need."
Emboldened, she leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest. The new angle drove him even deeper. Her hair fell around their faces, a fragrant curtain. She increased her pace, her hips pistoning now, a frantic, driving rhythm that spoke of a hunger reawakened. The headboard of the massive bed began to tap a soft, persistent rhythm against the wall behind it. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.
It was the sound of her claiming her own pleasure, of pain not just forgotten but actively replaced. Each impact was a punctuation mark in a new sentence their bodies were writing.
"Nobu," she chanted, her voice breaking on each downstroke. "Oh, god… right there… yes."
He could feel her tightening around him, the first tremors of another climax gathering like a storm. His own release was a tidal wave building at the base of his spine, held back only by sheer force of will. He wanted her to break first. He needed to see her fly apart on his cock, to know he'd given her this, too.
He slid one hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, his fingers finding her clit, now swollen and throbbing. He pressed, circling in time with her frantic thrusts.
That was all it took.
Her rhythm shattered. Her body went rigid above him, her mouth falling open in a soundless scream. Then the sound came—a high, keening wail as her inner muscles convulsed around him in a series of brutal, milking pulses. Her back arched violently, her breasts thrust forward, and she ground herself down onto him, seeking every last fraction of depth as the orgasm ripped through her.
The sensation of her climax, so intense and all-consuming, was the final trigger for his own crumbling control. With a guttural roar that was part triumph, part surrender, he thrust up into her, once, twice, three more times, burying himself as deep as he could go. His release was a scalding flood, jetting into her in hot, endless pulses that seemed to pull his very soul from his body. He held her hips down, locking her in place as he emptied himself, the world dissolving into a white-hot haze of pure, shuddering sensation.
For long moments, there was only the sound of their ragged, gasping breaths and the faint, persistent tap of the headboard settling back into silence. Sari collapsed forward, her body boneless, her face buried in the hollow of his neck. He could feel her heart hammering against his chest, a wild echo of his own. His arms came around her, holding her close, his hands stroking her damp back.
Slowly, the world swam back into focus. The blue glow of the clock. The faint scent of sex and her shampoo. The warm, heavy weight of her on top of him. The feel of him, still semi-hard, still nestled deep inside her where he'd spilled himself.
She stirred first, turning her head to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone. "The wall," she mumbled, her voice thick and sated. "It's not a wall anymore. It's… the whole world."
He understood. The pain was gone, yes. But what replaced it wasn't just absence. It was this: a profound, physical connection that had rewritten the night. It was comfort and carnality fused into something new and unbreakable.
He shifted beneath her, his softening cock slipping from her body with a soft, wet sound that made her shiver. A trickle of his release followed, warm on her inner thigh. He didn't move to clean it. The evidence felt sacred, a testament.
He rolled them gently, settling her on her side facing him, pulling the rumpled duvet over their cooling bodies. He tucked a strand of sweat-damp hair behind her ear, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw.
"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice rough with disuse.
She thought for a moment, her eyes searching his in the dim light. "Empty," she said finally. "In the best way. Like all the bad, twisted things have been wrung out. And full." She placed a hand low on her belly. "Full of you. Full of… peace."
A profound tenderness, sharp enough to hurt, lanced through him. He kissed her, a slow, deep, languid kiss that tasted of salt and sex and her. "Sleep," he murmured against her lips. "I'll be here. If the pain comes back…"
"You'll build me another world," she finished, a smile in her voice. Her eyes were already drifting shut, the exhaustion of pain and intense pleasure finally pulling her under. Within minutes, her breathing evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep.
Nobu lay awake, holding her. The guilt that had gnawed at him earlier was gone, burned away in the crucible of their joining. He hadn't taken advantage. He had met her in a place of need, and together they had transformed it. The headboard's rhythmic tap against the wall echoed in his memory. It was a sound he knew he would crave, a sound that now meant her pleasure, her release, her victory over the dark fist inside her.
He watched the digital clock flip to a new hour. The master suite was silent, save for her soft breaths. The heating pad on the nightstand, its red light now off, was a forgotten relic of a different kind of pain. Here, in the tangled sheets, with the scent of their union thick in the air and her body soft and trusting against his, a new kind of intimacy had been forged. It was messy, and real, and deeper than any they had yet known.
His own eyes grew heavy. As he drifted towards sleep, one thought circled, clear and certain: tomorrow would be different. The unspoken lines between them had been irrevocably crossed. They had cared for each other in the most fundamental, carnal way possible. There was no going back to the way things were. There was only this new, raw, beautiful territory, and the thrilling, terrifying question of what they would build in it when the sun rose.
Sari shifted in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and pressed her forehead more firmly against his chest. His arms tightened around her instinctively. The last thing he felt before sleep took him was the slow, steady beat of her heart against his skin, a rhythm more comforting than any silence.