I keep my mouth busy, a relentless force of worship and brutality. Her body goes taut, a vibrant, living wire, before it shudders, a brittle thing collapsing. Her thighs clamp around my shoulders, anchoring me as she comes in a violent, beautiful explosion—hot and bright and jagged, like shattered ice catching the sun. Her voice, usually so controlled, breaks into a ragged shout that drowns out any memory of the crowd. I hold her through the last, exquisite tremors, my tongue working slow and patient, savoring the aftermath.
When I rise, I don’t give her a second to recover. I pull the jersey off her, the fabric clinging to her damp skin before yielding. I peel myself out of my own damp uniform, pushing inside her with one deliberate, full-body motion that feels like coming home. Her wet heat surrounds my cock, a molten embrace that threatens to unravel me instantly. I have to bite my tongue to prolong the exquisite agony. She arches into me, a guttural sound of pleasure and pain escaping her lips. Her fingers claw at my shoulders until white crescents bloom on my skin, and her eyes, wet and brilliant, smile like she’s breaking and remaking all at once in the crucible of our passion.
“Tell me,” I growl, my voice low and ragged. “Tell me who you belong to.”
She looks at me—the tired, messy man who scores goals and would burn the world down for her—and answers without hesitation. “You,” she says, every syllable a blade. “Always you.”
I take the word in like sustenance. The rhythm is savage and strategic: hard thrusts, soft recoveries, my thumb finding her clit, circling in a way I know drives her crazy. She bites her lip. I bite back, down the line of her jaw, until she whimpers and laughs in the same breath.
“Say it again,” I demand.
“Yours,” she moans, twisting her hips, her nails tracking down my back. “Always yours.”
There’s nothing gentle in this. It’s worship disguised as war, a beautiful, brutal conflict where both sides emerge victorious. It’s ritual. As she builds toward the next wave, I slow my movements, holding her tremor in my hands like something holy. Then, with a surge of renewed power, I drive into her until we both shatter, breaking at the exact same second, our cries mingling in the air.
After, we lie tangled, the city’s distant lights painting patterns across the ceiling. Her breath slows; mine rattles like a train coming off the tracks. She snuggles her head against my chest, and for a second, the hunger that defined our early days eases into something like peace.
I trail a finger over the stitched letters on the jersey lying across her thighs—HALE—and the motion is reverent. Then, because owning isn’t just a metaphor for me, I lean down and press my teeth to the soft curve of her neck. The bite is sharp and quick, not cruel but chosen. She gasps, a small, involuntary sound.
“Mine,” I murmur against her skin.
The mark blooms red, honest and loud. It’s not the first, and it won’t be the last. It’s a punctuation that folds back to the first moment that started everything—a deliberate, possessive brand that matters more than any ring.
She runs a palm down my back, fingers splayed over the brand, eyes half-closed. “You always need to make it permanent, don’t you?” she teases, her voice tired and fond.
“You love it,” I counter, my voice softening just enough for her to hear it.
She smiles then—crooked, feral, beautiful. “I always will.”
The jersey’s hem brushes my thigh. The bite mark that glows warm on her neck is the only history that matters. She’s my anchor. My fire. My obsession. My wife.
And in the quiet after the storm, the city keeping its secrets below us, I press my forehead to hers and let the vow sit, heavy and honest between us.
You belong to me. Always.
