Chapter 11 – Who I Really Am
I sat across from Natasha.
The dying light of dusk streamed in through the half-open window, painting the room in warm oranges and deepening shadows, and it framed her like a still image. I'd noticed her beauty plenty of times before—anyone with eyes would—and becoming a devil had sharpened it somehow, refined it into something almost unreal. Stronger lines, clearer presence, a kind of gravity that pulled attention whether she wanted it or not.
But that wasn't what held my focus now.
Her green eyes were locked on me, sharp and searching, radiating concern and suspicion in equal measure. She sat forward slightly, shoulders tight, hands clasped together in her lap with more force than necessary. Every line of her body spoke of readiness, of someone braced for bad news. The fact that she wasn't masking it—that she trusted me enough not to bury her reactions under layers of practiced neutrality—hit harder than any accusation could have.
It made the guilt twist deeper.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice calm but careful, having clearly picked up on my tension.
I drew in a slow breath and closed my eyes for a moment, forcing my thoughts to settle. Natasha was someone I trusted—more than I trusted myself, if I was being honest. She'd followed me into a world of gods, monsters, and devils without hesitation. She gave up her humanity to be mine, and I would never forget it.
And now I was about to tell her something that could shatter that belief.
"When we met," I said slowly, opening my eyes again, "I told you my name was Millicas Gremory. That I was a devil."
I watched her carefully as I spoke, saw the subtle tightening of her jaw, the way her fingers stilled.
"That part is true," I continued. "But it wasn't always true."
I forced myself to hold her gaze. The shift in her eyes was immediate and painful—walls snapping back into place, suspicion hardening into something colder. For a split second it felt like the last few months hadn't happened at all. Like I was just another handler, another liar, another man with secrets and an agenda.
It hurt more than I'd expected.
Still, I didn't look away.
Still, I kept talking.
"A few months ago, I was a nobody," I said quietly. "Just another cog in the machine."
The words felt strange in my mouth now, like I was talking about someone else. Someone distant. Someone smaller.
"I woke up in the morning, dragged myself out of bed, and went to work. I spent most of the day doing things that didn't matter, for reasons I didn't care about, for people who wouldn't remember my name if I vanished the next week." I swallowed. "Then I went home and tried to distract myself from how empty it all felt. Games. Shows. Books. Anything that would keep my mind busy until it was time to sleep."
I let out a slow breath.
"Then I woke up the next day," I continued, "and did it all again."
The room felt very quiet. I could hear the faint hum of the city outside, distant traffic and wind against glass, a reminder that the world kept moving whether I mattered to it or not.
"I was alone," I said. "I didn't have real friends. Not the kind you can call at three in the morning. Just… people I was friendly with. Coworkers. Acquaintances. Faces you nod to in passing."
I hesitated, then added, "I didn't really have family either. Not anyone I was close to. Not anyone I trusted enough to lean on."
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
"I think most of my social interaction came from work," I said. "And even then, it was all surface-level. Small talk. Jokes you forget five minutes later. I can't honestly say I was friends with any of them."
My gaze drifted down to my hands, resting in my lap. Stronger now. Steadier. No longer the hands of that man.
"I'm not that person anymore," I said, more to myself than to her. "But I was."
I looked back up.
"That's why I was so obsessed with media," I went on. "Stories. Fiction. Anything that let me escape." My fingers curled slightly. "Other worlds. Fantastical worlds. Worlds where people mattered. Where choices had weight. Where suffering meant something and heroes could actually change things."
I shook my head faintly.
"I didn't just enjoy those stories," I admitted. "I lived in them. They were the only places that felt… alive."
I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
I failed.
"In my world, there wasn't anything special," I said. "Nothing hidden behind the curtain."
I leaned back slightly, as if the distance might make it easier to say.
"No geniuses building impossible technology in secret labs. No shadowy spy agencies pulling strings from behind the scenes. No super soldiers frozen in ice, waiting for the right moment to wake up."
I drew in a slow breath, steadying myself before continuing.
"No magic," I said quietly. "And no devils."
The words hung between us.
Natasha didn't move. She didn't flinch, didn't tense, didn't soften. She simply watched me with the same controlled stillness she'd worn in that interrogation room months ago. The professional mask. The one I had spent so long learning how to look past.
Seeing it again hurt more than I expected.
"In one of those stories," I went on, forcing myself not to stop, "there was a world like this one. Full of heroes. People who stood up when things went wrong. People who paid the price for it."
My voice was steadier now, carried forward by momentum more than confidence.
"The Avengers." She finally spoke, and her tone was carefully empty. Neutral. Safe.
"The Avengers." I nodded.
"I admired all of you," I said. "Not in a distant way. Not like celebrities. You were… proof. That the world could be more than what I saw every day."
Images flashed through my mind as I spoke them aloud.
"I saw Tony trapped in that cave, building a way out with nothing but scrap and stubbornness. I saw Steve Rogers take the serum, not because he was the strongest, but because he was good. I saw Thor lose everything and learn what it actually meant to be worthy."
I hesitated.
I didn't have to say it. She already knew.
"You saw me being inducted into the Red Room," she said.
Her voice didn't crack. It didn't tremble. It was precise, like a scalpel.
I nodded.
"Yes."
I waited for anger. For disbelief. For something—anything—to break through that calm exterior.
Nothing came.
Her face remained unreadable, her posture composed, her eyes locked on mine with the same measured scrutiny she used on hostile targets. And with every passing second, the pit in my stomach grew heavier.
Because I wasn't just confessing a secret.
I was watching the trust I'd earned slip further and further out of reach.
Still, I continued. Stopping now would only make it worse.
"In a different story, there were many supernatural races," I said. "Vampires and werewolves. Yokai and dragons. Angels and devils."
I let out a short, quiet laugh, the sound edged with self-awareness.
"The story itself was… ridiculous," I admitted. "About some horny idiot stumbling his way into a harem and godlike power through nothing but stubbornness, dumb luck, and teenage lust." I shook my head slightly. "It wasn't even particularly well written."
Despite everything, a faint smile tugged at my lips.
"But the worldbuilding," I continued, "that part stuck with me."
For just a moment, the weight in my chest eased as an old memory surfaced. I had originally picked up Highschool DxD for the most stereotypical reasons imaginable. I'd been a teenager, and at the time, anime with overpowered protagonists and shameless fanservice felt like the pinnacle of entertainment.
Looking back, it was embarrassing.
Even then, I'd barely tolerated Issei as a protagonist. His antics grated on me, and his motivations were shallow at best. But the world around him—the factions, the politics, the mythologies colliding and overlapping—had been fascinating enough that I kept going despite him.
"In that story," I said, refocusing, "there was the Gremory clan of devils."
Natasha didn't interrupt. She didn't react. She just listened.
"They were one of the great devil families," I went on. "Most of their role in the plot amounted to handing off their daughter—the main love interest—to the aforementioned horny idiot once he proved himself strong enough."
I paused, a strange sense of irony settling in.
Strangely enough, my devil instincts told me that it made sense. Power recognized power. Issei had proven himself capable of claiming Rias, so of course he was allowed to have her. Devils were creatures of desire and dominance; the logic was brutal, but consistent.
"But there was also a background character," I said. "Barely relevant. Easy to miss."
I spread my arms slightly, palms up.
"The nephew of the love interest. A child said to have great talent, and even greater potential."
I met her eyes again.
"Millicas Gremory."
I paused.
I could leave it there. I could let the implication hang in the air—that some powerful, unknowable entity had merged me with Millicas and dropped me into this reality. It would be clean. Simple. It would spare me from explaining the Company, from putting words to something that still felt too large and too abstract to fully grasp.
And it wouldn't even be a lie.
But I had already crossed the point of no return. I had promised myself that I would tell her everything, and half-truths would poison that promise just as surely as an outright lie.
So I kept going.
"I still don't know why I was chosen," I said quietly. "There was nothing special about that day. It was just another normal, boring one. I went through the motions, did what I always did, and went to sleep fully expecting to wake up and do it all again."
I swallowed.
No destiny. No foreshadowing. No sense of something looming just beyond the horizon.
Just sleep.
"I didn't wake up in my bed," I continued. "I woke up… somewhere else. With options. With power placed in front of me like a menu."
I hesitated, unsure whether to smile or frown.
My feelings about the Company were tangled in ways I still hadn't fully unraveled. Gratitude and resentment. Awe and unease. Fear and dependence. They coexisted without ever resolving into something clean or simple.
They had given me everything.
And that fact alone made one thing painfully clear: trying to go against them would be suicidally stupid.
Every scrap of power I wielded—every ounce of strength, every supernatural ability, every advantage I had—had come from them. I knew, on a bone-deep level, that if they wanted to, they could take it all back just as easily. No fight. No appeal. No second chances.
I had never been arrogant enough to believe otherwise.
"I don't know what they really are," I admitted. "Or what they ultimately want. And I don't pretend to be brave enough to challenge them."
I let out a slow breath.
"And if I'm being honest… I'm not sure I would even want to."
That was the ugliest truth of all.
"For better or worse, I'm a selfish person," I said. "I always have been."
I looked at her, forcing myself not to look away.
"As long as what they do doesn't affect me or the people I care about… I can live with not knowing. With not asking questions."
I didn't try to justify it. Didn't dress it up as pragmatism or survival.
"I believe in not biting the hand that feeds you," I finished softly.
I shook my head, more to steady myself than to deny anything.
"They call themselves the Company," I said. "They deal in everything—and I do mean everything. The physical. The spiritual. The abstract. Concepts, identities, possibilities. If it can be defined, they can package it. If it can't, they'll define it anyway."
She didn't interrupt me. She didn't even shift in her seat. She was listening with the kind of focus that told me she wanted the whole thing, unfiltered, no matter how ugly it got.
"But their most famous product is called a Waifu," I continued.
"Slaves," she said flatly.
There was an edge to her voice, sharp and controlled, and it cut deeper than if she'd raised it. I didn't flinch. I didn't try to soften it.
She had accused me of the same thing months ago, back in that interrogation room. Back when she'd first realized what I was offering her. She had seen the shape of it even then, stripped of context, stripped of justification. She had believed I would bind her because it was in my nature as a devil.
She hadn't been wrong.
"I'm not going to pretend the comparison doesn't fit," I said quietly.
"To acquire these Waifus, they recruit Contractors," I went on. "People like me. They send us into different universes to capture specific individuals. Sometimes subtly. Sometimes violently. Sometimes with consent, sometimes without."
I hated how clinical my voice sounded, but I forced myself to keep going.
"In exchange, the Contractor gets two things. Credits—currency that can be spent in the Company's store. And the Waifu herself, bound to the Contractor… while the Company creates clones to sell."
I watched her eyes narrow—not in surprise, but in confirmation. The missing pieces were clicking into place. She had always been good at that.
"The bindings vary," I said. "Some are crude. Some are absolute. Some rewrite emotions, instincts, loyalty. Love."
I didn't look away.
"They ensure obedience. Devotion. Attachment."
"And you are one of them," she said.
Her voice was cold now. Not angry. Controlled. Professional. The voice of an agent compartmentalizing something dangerous.
"I am," I nodded.
I lifted a hand, and with a thought the small table between us filled with my Evil Pieces. They appeared silently, arranged with deliberate care, the set gleaming faintly in the dim light.
"They created an experimental form of binding," I said. "Based on these. Evil Pieces native to the same universe as the Gremory devils. They wanted to see if they could fuse them with their binding. Another method to empower their Waifus."
I let that sink in.
"I was told I had to become a devil," I continued. "That I would be sent out to test the system. To see if it worked."
Her gaze dropped to the pieces, then lifted back to my face.
"And you chose to test them on me."
It wasn't a question.
I didn't try to dodge it. I didn't try to justify it yet.
"Yes," I said. "I only have the one set, and with no way to get more I had to pick only the best of the best. And when it comes to being a Queen, I had very few candidates comparable to you. So I chose to come to this universe, so I could recruit you."
The words hung between us, heavier than I had expected. Admitting it out loud stripped away any last illusion that this had all been coincidence or fate. It had been a choice—calculated, deliberate, and irreversible.
"I had noticed how quickly I grew fond of you." She said softly. "Unnaturally quickly. But I dismissed it. Was that another effect?"
There was no accusation in her tone this time, only quiet realization. She wasn't angry so much as wounded, piecing together memories that now felt tainted with doubt.
"Most likely." I said.
I didn't try to soften it. There was no point pretending the bindings were subtle or gentle. They worked because they rewrote the rules, nudged emotions where they might not have gone on their own.
She paused for a moment, processing everything I told her.
Her gaze drifted away from me, unfocused, as if she were replaying every interaction we'd had, testing each one for authenticity. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, until she finally looked back.
"Why?" She asked. "Why did you join the Company? Did they not give you a choice?"
I chuckled.
It was a hollow sound, more reflex than humor, born of bitter self-awareness.
"I suspect that I wouldn't have been given the offer if they didn't already know I would say yes."
Then I sighed softly.
The fight drained out of me all at once, leaving only tired honesty.
"I was sick of it all." I admitted. "The mundanity. The lack of meaning. But most of all, I was lonely."
I looked her in the eyes, willing her to understand just how much I meant what I was saying.
Not to forgive me. Not yet. Just to see me.
"Every time I emotionally invested in someone, I was left alone." I said. "Maybe it was a nasty fight we had. Maybe it was differing personalities. Maybe it was just life taking its toll."
Faces and names threatened to surface—half-forgotten conversations, promises that had felt real at the time. I pushed them back down.
I tried not to remember those days as best I could.
"They always drifted away. They always left, and I was always alone again."
The pattern had been relentless. Different people, same ending. Eventually, you stop believing it's coincidence.
I wanted to reach out. To touch her. To remind myself she wouldn't leave me. But I didn't.
I didn't trust myself to handle it if she pulled away.
"I don't like what the Company does, Natasha." I said honestly. "But I didn't want to be alone anymore. I wanted someone who I knew would never leave me again."
The confession felt raw, stripped of justification or bravado. Just a need laid bare.
"And for that," I finished softly. "My consciousness is a small price to pay."
There it was. The truth laid bare. Who I really was, stripped of excuses and justifications, exposed for her to judge. I had finally said everything that mattered, everything I'd been avoiding naming out loud. And considering what I had done to her—what I had chosen to do—I didn't expect her to be particularly merciful.
If anything, I felt like I deserved whatever anger she decided to unleash.
And I didn't know what was worse. That I knew, with sickening certainty, that the binding would ensure she would forgive me. Or that I was relieved that it would.
The realization sat like a weight in my chest, equal parts shame and comfort tangled together in a way I couldn't separate anymore.
I actually flinched when I felt her grab my hand, my body reacting before my mind could catch up. I hadn't been ready for the sheer tenderness of her touch—the warmth of her fingers curling around mine, firm but gentle, grounding ine anchor rather than a restraint.
When I looked into her eyes, I expected to see recrimination. I expected to see anger, and hate, and disgust. I expected resentment and bitterness, the sharp edge of betrayal cutting between us.
I didn't expect the concern.
The pity.
The love.
They were all there, plain as day, unguarded and sincere. And somehow that hurt more than anger ever could have.
"I'm not going to abandon you, Millicas." She said softly. "Not now, and not ever."
Her voice didn't waver. There was no hesitation, no careful phrasing. Just certainty.
I didn't understand.
It didn't fit. Not with what I had confessed. Not with what she now knew.
"Aren't you angry?" I asked. "I lied to you. I manipulated you. I bound you to me!"
The words came out harsher than I meant them to, edged with disbelief and self-loathing. I needed her to be angry. I needed that reaction to make sense of all this.
She shook her head, smiling like I was being silly.
Not indulgent. Not condescending. Just… fond.
"I'm not happy with it." She admitted. "But you aren't giving me enough credit."
Her thumb brushed lightly over the back of my hand as she spoke, a small, absent gesture that felt unbearably intimate.
"I figured out that you hadn't been a devil for long. Your body language and reactions were too new for you to have lived your entire life this way." She said. "Once you explained how the multiverse worked, I started suspecting that you weren't from here."
She spoke calmly, methodically, like she was laying out pieces of a puzzle she'd already assembled in her own mind.
She gave me an amused smile.
"It didn't help that you never actually introduced me to any other devils."
The corner of her mouth twitched, eyes bright with quiet humor despite everything.
In hindsight, that must have been a pretty major red flag.
I let out a weak breath, something between a laugh and a sigh.
"Does Fury know?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"He thinks you just haven't taken me to the Underworld yet." She said. "He hasn't spent enough time near you to know you would have shown me off if you could."
There was warmth in her voice when she said it. Affection. Familiarity.
That was also true.
I would have shown off my amazing Queen to everyone I could, if given the chance.
"I know telling me this can't have been easy, and you didn't have to, so thank you for trusting me so completely." She said.
Her voice was gentle, steady in a way that made it clear she understood exactly how much it had cost me to speak. There was no judgment in her eyes, no hesitation—only acceptance, offered freely.
She leaned in closer, slowly, giving me every chance to pull away if I wanted to. I didn't. Her breath ghosted over my lips, warm and faintly sweet, close enough that I could feel the words before she finished speaking them.
"You gave me back the ability to be a mother. You gave me a new life, outside of just being an agent. You gave me eternity by your side." She said softly. "So I don't care if it's because of the binding."
The weight of those words settled deep in my chest. Not obligation. Not compulsion. Choice.
"I love you, Millicas."
I didn't know what hit me harder. The confession, so clearly genuine and full of emotion, spoken without hesitation or doubt. Or our first kiss.
It was gentle at first, tentative in a way that felt almost reverent. Her lips were warm, soft, unmistakably real. She tasted of cherry, and the sensation short-circuited every coherent thought I had left. The world narrowed down to that single point of contact, to the quiet certainty of her choosing me.
My devil nature didn't shield me from it. Sticky Fingers didn't kick in. If anything, they only made me more aware of just how completely I was being overwhelmed—not by lust, but by affection, by trust, by love freely given.
When she finally pulled back for air, her forehead resting lightly against mine, I was still reeling.
So I did the only thing I could.
"I love you too, Natasha." I said, looking into her beautiful green eyes.
And for the first time since all of this had begun, the words felt like something real.
I leaned in again, meeting her lips a second time, and it felt just as amazing as it did the first. She was a fantastic kisser, but it was the certainty of her love that makes the experience as incredible as it was.
I pulled back just enough to breathe, my forehead resting against Natasha's, our breaths mingled in the small, warm space between us. Her green eyes were half-lidded, soft in a way I've never seen them before—not calculating, not guarded, just… open. Mine. The word kept echoing in my chest like a heartbeat I couldn't quiet.
Looking at her, I felt safe. Safe in the knowledge that she loved me. Safe in the knowledge that it would never change. Safe in the knowledge that I would never be alone again.
"I love you," I said again, because once wasn't enough. Because saying it felt like setting something free inside me that had been caged for too long. "I love you, Natasha. More than anything."
Her lips curved—small, real, almost shy—and then she was kissing me again, slower this time. No urgency, no battle. Just the gentle press of her mouth, the soft give of her lower lip under mine, the way her fingers slid into my hair like she was finally allowed to hold me without calculating the next move.
My hands moved without thought—sliding up her sides, memorizing the shape of her ribs through the thin black shirt she was wearing, then higher, cradling her face like something priceless. She leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.
I kissed her deeper, still slow, still careful, but with more of myself in it. Tongues slid together in a lazy, intimate dance. She sighed into my mouth—a small, broken sound that made my chest ache with how much I wanted to keep her safe, keep her there, keep her mine.
I shifted us carefully until she was lying back on the bed, hair fanning out across the dark sheets like spilled ink. I followed her down, never breaking the kiss, bracing myself on my forearms so I wasn't crushing her. One of her legs hooked loosely around my hip, pulling me closer without demanding, just… wanting me nearer.
My hand found hers. Our fingers laced together, palms pressed tight. I broke the kiss only to trail my lips down the line of her throat, feeling her pulse flutter wildly under my mouth. She tilted her head back to give me more room, a soft sound escaping her when I kissed the hollow at the base of her throat.
"Millicas…" My name in her voice was quiet, reverent, like a secret she's only just learned she's allowed to say.
I lifted my head to look at her. Really look. The faint freckles across her nose, the way her lips were kiss-bruised and darker than usual. She was beautiful. She had always been beautiful, but right then she was devastating.
"I've wanted this for so long," I confessed, voice rough. "To touch you like this. To have you look at me the way you're looking at me right now."
Her free hand came up, fingertips tracing the line of my cheekbone, then my jaw, then the corner of my mouth.
"Then touch me," she said simply. "I'm here. I'm yours."
The words hit harder than any blow I'd ever taken.
I kissed her again—deeper, hungrier, but still tender. My hand slipped under her shirt, palm sliding up the smooth plane of her stomach, feeling her muscles flutter under my touch. When I cupped her breast, thumb brushing over the peak through her bra, she arched into me with a soft moan that vibrated against my lips.
I pulled back just enough to look into her eyes as I pushed her shirt higher, baring more skin. She didn't stop me. She just watched me with that same open, trusting look, cheeks flushed.
"You're so beautiful," I breathed, almost to myself, as I lowered my mouth to the newly exposed skin. I kissed the curve of her breast, then took the nipple through lace, sucking gently. Her fingers tightened in my hair, a shaky gasp leaving her.
I took my time. Every inch of her skin got kissed, worshipped. The dip of her collarbone, the sensitive spot just under her ear that makes her squirm, the soft inside of her wrist when she reached for me. I murmured against her skin between each kiss—how much I loved her, how long I'd wanted her, how perfect she felt under my hands.
Sticky Fingers guided me towards each of her weak spots, and with every gentle kiss I was rewarded with another moan. Her devil body, far more sensitive to pleasure than a human's, made her especially weak to my ministrations.
Not that she looked like she minded.
When I finally settled between her thighs, clothes still mostly on because I wasn't ready to rush it, she wrapped both legs around me and pulled me flush against her. We both groaned at the contact, hips rocking together in slow, instinctive rhythm.
Her hands roamed my back, nails dragging lightly, then soothing with open palms. She was mapping me the same way I was mapping her—like we were trying to learn each other by touch alone.
"I love you," she whispered against my ear, voice thick. "I love you so much it scares me."
I lifted my head, found her mouth again, kissed her slow and deep while I ground against her in a rhythm that was more about feeling than chasing.
"Then let it scare you," I murmured. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here. Every time it scares you, I'll be right here."
We stayed like that for what felt like forever—kissing, touching, rocking together, whispering love back and forth like a promise we were making with our bodies. No rush. No need to finish. Just the two of us, finally, completely, honestly together.
And for the first time in both of my lives, everything felt exactly right.
I don't know how long we stayed tangled like that—minutes, hours—time measured only in the slow drag of her fingers through my hair and the steady thump of her heart under my ear when I finally rested my head on her chest. The room was quiet except for our breathing, the faint rustle of sheets when one of us shifted to get closer.
Eventually Natasha's hand slid down my spine, tracing idle patterns that made me shiver. When her fingertips slipped under the hem of my shirt, brushing bare skin, I lifted my head to look at her. Her eyes were darker now, the green deeper, full of something that was still soft but no longer just tender. There was heat there, banked and patient.
I kissed her again, slower than before, letting it linger until we were both breathing harder. This time when my hand moved under her shirt, she helped me pull it off, arching up so I could tug it over her head and toss it aside. Her bra was simple black lace; I traced the edge with my thumb, watching goosebumps rise on her skin.
She reached for my shirt next, pushing it up with impatient little tugs until I sat back on my heels to yank it off. The moment it was gone her hands were on me—palms flat against my chest, tracing the lines of muscle. Her touch was reverent, like she was memorizing me the same way I'd memorized her.
I leaned down to kiss her collarbone, then lower, mouthing along the edge of the lace until I could pull it aside and take her into my mouth. She gaspped my name, fingers tightening in my hair—not guiding, just holding. I took my time, switching sides, teasing with lips and tongue until her hips were rocking up against me in small, needy movements.
When I finally reached behind her to unhook the bra, she lifted just enough to let me slide it off. Then there was nothing between us but the thin fabric of her leggings and my trousers, and even that felt like too much. I kissed my way back up her throat, her jaw, until I was hovering over her mouth again.
"Tell me if it's too much," I whispered. "Or too fast."
She shook her head, pulling me down into a kiss that was deeper now, hungrier. "It's not enough," she breathed against my lips. "I want all of you."
Those words undid me.
My hands moved to the waistband of her leggings; she lifted her hips to help me ease them down, along with the last scrap of lace beneath. I sat back again just to look at her—spread out beneath me, flushed and breathing fast, eyes locked on mine with absolute trust.
I had never felt anything like the ache in my chest right then. Not lust (though gods know that's there), but something bigger. Love so fierce it almost hurts.
I kissed her again as I undid my belt, kicking off the rest of my clothes until there was nothing left separating us. When I settled between her thighs again, skin to skin, we both groaned at the contact. She was warm and soft and perfect, and I had to pause just to breathe, forehead pressed to hers.
"I love you," I said it against her lips, then again against her throat as I reached between us to guide myself to her entrance. "I love you."
The first slow push inside her stole both our breath. She was tight and hot and clinging to me, and I had to stop halfway just to keep from losing control. Her legs wrapped around my waist, heels digging into my back, urging me deeper.
"Move," she whispered, voice trembling. "Please."
I did—slow, deep strokes that have us both shaking. Every time I sank into her she made that soft little sound that drove me crazy, and I swallowed it with a kiss. Our hands were everywhere—hers clutching my shoulders, sliding down my back, nails dragging just enough to sting; mine cradling her face, then lower, cupping her breast, thumbing her nipple until she arched into me.
We found a rhythm together, unhurried but building, bodies moving like we had done that a thousand times and it was still brand new. I shifted angles until she gaspped sharply and clutched me tighter—that spot, right there—and I stayed on it, grinding slow circles every time I bottomed out.
Her breathing turned ragged. "Millicas—god—"
I kissed her through it as she started to come apart, feeling her tighten around me in waves that dragged me right to the edge with her. She buried her face in my neck, muffling the soft cry of my name against my skin, and I followed a few thrusts later—spilling deep inside her with a low groan, holding her as close as I can.
Afterward, I didn't pull out. I just rolled us carefully so she's draped over my chest, still connected, my arms wrapped tight around her. She was limp and warm, breath fluttering against my throat.
I press a kiss to her hair, then her temple, then the corner of her mouth when she tilts her face up.
"I love you," I said again, quieter this time. "Always."
Natasha smiled—small, sleepy, utterly content—and kissed me soft and slow.
"Always," she echoed.
And in the quiet that followed, with her heartbeat steady against mine, I knew this was where I was meant to be. Forever.