Having Her, Having Him

Having Her, Having Him
"Then make me," she challenged, breathless.
His smirk was sharp, wicked. And then he moved.
Their bodies crashed together in a rhythm that was frantic, desperate, filled with all the tension, all the unresolved desire that had burned between them for so long.
"Yes!" Seraphina wailed as Adolphus vigorously thrust in and out of her. She arched her back while he sucked on her tities, he ate them up like they was something he wished to discover out of it. Seraphina wrapped her legs around his waist as the intensity of the moment increased. Adolphus groaned and pressed even into her, her pussy clenched around his pussy in a death grip, as her hand went for his head and her finger wrapped around his hair.
Adolphus let out a mischievous laugh before nibbling her nipples. She gasped and her legs widened. Adolphus continued to thrust into her while bringing his finger to her clit, still actively, alternatively sucking her boobs.
Every thrust sent her higher, every kiss, every bite, every whispered curse fanned the flames until they were both teetering on the edge.
She chanted his name like a prayer, her body arching, grasping, burning.
He groaned, burying his face in her neck. "Come for me, Seraphina."
And with one last stroke, one last kiss, she shattered, crying out his name as pleasure consumed her.
He followed, a deep growl tearing from his chest as he lost himself in her, his body tensing, then shaking as he found his own release.
For a long moment, they stayed tangled together, their breaths heavy, their skin slick with sweat.
Then, just as she was about to pull away, to think, to speak—to ruin the moment—Adolphus rolled onto his side, tugging her against his chest, wrapping her up in his arms like he couldn’t bear to let go.
"Mine," he murmured against her hair.
Seraphina didn’t answer.
Because she didn’t trust herself to say otherwise.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
The sheets were cold.
Alaric blinked, his mind sluggish, still hazy from sleep and the lingering heat of the night before. But as he reached across the bed, his hand met nothing but empty space. His brows furrowed.
She was gone.
He shot up, his eyes sweeping the room. No sign of her. The dress—the one he had bought her—was missing too. A slow, measured inhale filled his lungs with her scent, still clinging to the sheets, to his skin, to him. It was intoxicating, overwhelming. It made his chest tighten with something raw and unfamiliar.
Then, it hit him.
He couldn’t feel her in the house.
Panic surged through him like wildfire. His pulse thundered as he threw the sheets aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He didn’t bother with a shirt—just yanked on his pants, fumbling with the buttons as he stormed toward the door.
Where the hell did she go?
He moved through the house like a predator, his senses sharp, searching, desperate. Every room was empty. No trace of her. No lingering warmth in the hallways. Just the ghost of her presence taunting him.
His jaw clenched. His muscles coiled.
Did she regret it?
Did she think she could just disappear after last night?
His fingers curled into a fist as he exhaled harshly.
No.
She wasn’t escaping him that easily.