Devon did not speak.
He simply rolled onto his back beside her, slow and heavy, the mattress letting out a long, defeated groan that sounded almost human.
The bridal-suite sheets were beyond saving, soaked through, twisted into wet ropes, streaked with sweat, spit, cum, and the faint pinkish traces of the scratches she had clawed into his back.
One thick arm slid behind his head, bicep flexing lazily, the other rested across the ridged plane of his stomach, fingers loose, almost casual, but his cock, still furiously hard, jutted straight up like a weapon.
He turned his face to her.
"Come here," he rasped, voice scraped raw, low enough to vibrate in her clit. "Get on top. I want to watch you take every single inch of it."
Marianne's breath caught so violently her ribs ached.
