Then take me

They’d stayed like that for a while — her limbs trembling, his mouth still hot with her. The bed warm beneath them, the room lit in honey stripes through the blinds.

But something shifted.

Aimee stretched, slow and unhurried, like a cat warming her spine. The movement drew his eyes, the long curve of her back, the delicate stretch of lace as it shifted across her hips.

She turned toward him with that same smile — the one she gave when she was just about to do something.

“Stay there,” she murmured, slipping from his hold.

“Aimee—”

She crawled toward the centre of the bed, lace panties clinging to her hips. She glanced back over her shoulder, a single brow lifting. And then, as deliberately as anything she’d ever done in her life, she arched her back, dropped to her elbows, and pushed her arse up into the light.

The lace cut perfectly across the swell of her backside. Just sheer enough to reveal the shape beneath. Just small enough to make his jaw go slack.

“If you want me,” she said, voice low, “take me like this.”

He swore — softly, reverently — and stood in one breath, belt clinking open.

Her eyes fluttered shut as she heard him undress. She could feel the hunger coming off him in waves. But she stayed there — offering herself up, curved and waiting, the heat of her body already returning in a slow throb between her thighs.

He was behind her in seconds, hands firm on her hips.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, leaning over her, his chest brushing her back.

“Then fuck me,” she said. “Don’t be sweet about it.”

He groaned — growled — and pushed her panties aside again. She was still wet from before, the lace soaked at the seam. He ran the head of his cock through her slick folds, teasing, pressing just enough to make her whimper.

And then he pushed in.

Deep. Full. Slow at first, just enough to make them both feel it in their teeth.

Aimee gasped, arching higher, pressing back against him.

He held her hips wide, watching himself disappear into her, over and over, the lace of her panties framing the motion like a black ribbon. Her backside rippled with each thrust — that perfect, generous swell he loved — and he gripped it tighter, watching the red marks bloom beneath his hands.

“Harder,” she breathed. “I can take it.”

And God, she could. Every time he drove into her, she met him with it — steady, aching, insatiable.

The sound of it filled the room: the wet slap of skin, the soft grunt of him losing control, the bed shifting beneath them. Her breasts swayed beneath her with each movement, barely contained by lace, flushed and full.

She turned her head, cheek pressed to the sheets.

“You’re going to make me come again,” she said, voice breaking.

“Yes,” he growled. “Give it to me.”

And she did.

Right there, with her back arched and her breath punched out of her, she fell apart. Her thighs shook. Her moan was long and low, a cry she didn’t bother to swallow. She let him hear it.

And he followed — hips jerking, cock throbbing inside her, one last deep thrust and a broken sound in her throat.

They collapsed together, tangled and panting, the light still striping their bodies.

He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her down into him. Kissed the back of her neck. Touched the red indent where her bra strap had slipped.

“You said this was for you,” he whispered.

“It was,” she said, voice lazy with bliss. “But that bit? That was all for you.”

They stayed there for a long time.

Breathing. Glowing. Draped in each other.

The light shifted slowly across the sheets, turning from gold to soft grey. Somewhere in the flat, the wine glass still sat, untouched. A half-played album cycled to silence.

Aimee rolled onto her side, face pressed to his chest, her hair a damp tangle of red over his skin. Her thigh draped across his. The lace was twisted now — panties still askew, bra halfway up her ribs — but she didn’t move to fix it.

Robert’s fingers drifted along her back in slow, absent strokes. Gentle. Circular. As if trying to memorise the shape of her in this exact moment.

“You alright?” he murmured into her hair.

“Mmm.” Her reply was wordless, but full of contentment.

He smiled.

“You meant to kill me, didn’t you?”

“I warned you,” she said, without opening her eyes. “You should’ve left the room.”

“You were on your knees in black lace. What was I supposed to do?”

She smiled into his chest. Pressed a kiss there, slow and lazy.

“You did exactly what I hoped you would.”

A soft laugh from him. His hand slid lower, smoothing across her hip, over the place where he’d held her so tightly minutes before. There’d be marks. The good kind.

“I missed this,” he said, almost to himself.

She lifted her head.

“This?”

“You. Us. The way you look at me when you want me. The way you move when you know I’m watching.”

She brushed a hand down his chest. His words had landed somewhere soft inside her.

“You still make me feel wanted,” she said. “That matters more than you think.”

He tilted her chin up, eyes serious now.

“I do want you.”

“Even when I’m messy and loud and—”

“Especially then.”

She held his gaze. For a moment, everything else dropped away. The room. The day. Even the sex.

It was just them — skin to skin, soul to soul.

And then she kissed him. Not with heat. Not with hunger. But with something quieter, deeper. A kiss that tasted like thank you.