2:13 AM
The white sheet was a ruin already — soaked through, clinging to her inner thighs like a second skin, damp with things she didn't want to name out loud.
She slumped forward, face half-swallowed by the satin pillow, her lips wet and slack against the fabric, tongue too heavy to pull back.
Her hair — tangled, spit-damp — plastered to her neck and down between her shoulder blades where sweat had pooled and dripped.
Behind her, Cruxius shifted his weight.
He sat back on the thick pillow at the bed's edge, knees wide, feet planted, thighs spread like a throne only he was allowed to sit on, and she was just what he put on it.
She felt his hands before she heard him move — fingers hooked around her hips, grip rough and certain, pulling her back into place like she'd drifted somewhere she wasn't supposed to go.
Her back hit his chest.
