Chloe's POV
The soft knock at the door was persistent. I groaned, burying my face into Ezra's bare chest. His arm was draped around me protectively, his other hand tangled in my hair like he'd fallen asleep touching me and never let go.
"Room service," came a muffled voice from the other side. "Breakfast."
Ezra cracked an eye open, voice low and sleep-rough. "They just want us to suffer."
I giggled into his skin. "Maybe we should eat."
He pulled me closer, his lips brushing my temple. "I already did."
I blushed furiously.
"I meant last night," he said, then added, with a lazy smirk, "but I wouldn't mind another taste."
Before I could say anything, he rolled on top of me, pressing me gently into the sheets, his weight warm and grounding. The tray of untouched breakfast outside could wait—the hunger in his eyes was far more urgent.
"I can't stop looking at you," he whispered, fingers ghosting along my jaw, down my throat, to the curve of my shoulder. "I woke up thinking last night was a dream."
"It wasn't," I murmured, tracing my fingertips over his back. "You're real."
His lips found mine in a kiss that started slow—unrushed, like we had forever. His hand slid over my waist, drawing soft circles across my skin, igniting a fire that hadn't gone out from the night before.
But this time, it wasn't frantic.
It was deeper. Softer. Devouring in a way that made my chest ache.
He kissed down my neck, pausing where his mark from last night lingered—a faint bruise, proof of how completely I was his. "You should see how you look with my hickeys," he murmured. "Messy, flushed, beautiful."
My breath hitched as he slowly explored every inch of me again, his lips painting devotion across my ribs, stomach, hips. He was unhurried, like memorizing a melody he never wanted to forget.
When our bodies met again, it wasn't just about desire—it was surrender.
We moved in sync, as if our souls had finally found the rhythm they were always meant to dance to. Every moan, every gasp, every brush of skin against skin felt sacred. I clung to him, nails digging into his back, as his whispers unraveled me completely.
"You're mine," he whispered hoarsely against my lips. "And I'll spend forever proving it, Chloe."
Tears stung my eyes from the sheer intimacy—not from the act itself, but from how wholly he gave himself to me in that moment. And how, without question, I gave myself back.
Afterward, he held me like I was the only thing he'd ever needed. My head rested on his chest, our fingers laced, hearts pounding in the same rhythm.
The staff had long left. Breakfast was cold.
But we were burning.