She still twitched beneath him.
Little spasms. Soft tremors rippling through her thighs and stomach, as if the aftershocks of her climax were still echoing through her bones.
Damien didn't move.
Not yet.
He remained buried inside her, still warm, still throbbing faintly in the wet heat that now cradled him like it had been made to.
He looked down.
And there she was.
Elysia.
His Elysia.
Eyes fluttering, lashes trembling faintly against flushed cheeks. Her mouth—usually drawn, guarded, silent—was parted now, lips slightly wet from her own panting breaths. Her chest rose and fell in slow, uneven waves, nipples still taut against his skin, her arms splayed weakly to the side as though she'd forgotten how to hold herself together.
And her expression—
Dazed.
She wasn't lost. Not exactly. But the usual iron discipline in her features had been melted away, softened by the unfamiliar weight of pleasure. Vulnerability clung to her like a second skin, pale and bare and breathtaking.
