The last round left them both emptied.
Aiden finally stilled inside her, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged. Elizabeth's legs trembled around his waist. When he withdrew, the rush of fluid was immediate and heavy—thick, warm, endless. It spilled across the sheets in a slow flood that neither of them moved to stop.
For a long time they simply lay there.
Elizabeth's body ached in every place he had claimed. Her thighs were sticky and sore. Her cunt throbbed with a deep, bruised pulse that flared every time she shifted.
The air in the room was thick with the scent of them. The headboard still bore the faint crack from the night's violence. Outside, the temple bells had finished ringing, and the first real light of morning stretched across the floor.
Aiden's hand rested low on her belly, palm warm and steady over the slight fullness left by everything he had poured into her. His thumb moved in slow, absent circles. Neither of them spoke at first.
