Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!

Parker kissed her hair, then her shoulder, pulling her into his chest like he could bury the whole world behind her spine. Time didn't exist anymore. The rain outside had gone quiet, the house dimmed and distant, and nothing—nothing—mattered more than the soft, desperate beat of her heart against his.

He tilted her chin with two fingers, slow, reverent. Their eyes locked like gravity snapped into place, and then his mouth found hers again—this time not hurried. This time, like he meant to memorize it.

His lips moved over hers like a vow. Her hands curled into his hair, pulling him closer until he exhaled into her, like she'd just knocked the wind out of his ribs. And then their bodies—God, their bodies—began to move like magnets too long separated. No hesitation now. Just the fire they'd tried too long to ignore.

She pulled his shirt over his head, fingers trembling not from fear but from finally fucking letting go. Her hands ghosted down his chest, feeling every scar, every line, every unspoken history carved into his skin.

His breath hitched when she touched the place over his heart like it burned beneath her palm.

Parker didn't rip her blouse—he unbuttoned it, one slow pop at a time, eyes never leaving hers, like each button undone was a truth he was undressing from her soul. When it slid off her shoulders, his hands roamed from her collarbone to her waist, thumbs tracing the curve of her ribs like they were made of glass and he was some ancient god rediscovering worship.

She was bare to him now—vulnerable, radiant, furious in beauty.

And he?

He kneeled.

Not literally. But in the way he looked at her. Like everything in him bowed.

They kissed again, mouths hungrier now, hips arching, fingers tangled. Her moan slipped between them and his name followed, whispered like a secret she could only say when their skin met like that—hot, tense, grounding.

He pushed her back against the bed, crawling over her like the night sky folding around a burning star.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, needing him closer—now, always.

And when he finally slid inside her, she gasped so hard it broke something between them.

They didn't speak.

They groaned. Gasped. Clawed.

His rhythm was steady at first—controlled, paced. But then she dug her nails into his back, and something in him snapped. He began to thrust deeper, harder, but never wild. Never reckless. Parker didn't fuck like a boy.

He made love like a man who knew exactly what he had—and how easily it could be taken.

Their bodies moved like music no one else could hear—chests brushing, hips colliding, mouths never far apart. Every drag of skin on skin was electric. Every pull of breath felt like life itself.

She trembled beneath him, nails scoring his spine, lips tracing the shell of his ear. "Don't stop."

"I'm not going anywhere," he breathed, voice wrecked and low.

And he didn't.

He held her there, against the mattress and against the ache in his chest that screamed for her never to leave. Their high came like a storm—rolling, wild, full of every emotion they'd buried for days. Weeks. Maybe lives.

They shattered together.

Moaning, shaking, clinging.

And when it was over—when sweat cooled and breath steadied—he kissed her again.

Softer now.

Gentler.

Like he was saying thank you. Like he was saying goodbye.

Even if neither of them dared speak that word yet.

She curled into his chest, leg over his waist, their bodies still tangled in the sheets they'd ruined. His hand ran up and down her spine like he was afraid she'd vanish.

"Parker," she whispered, voice hoarse.

"I know," he said.

And they just… stayed.

Wrapped in each other. Breathing like the war outside didn't exist.

Because for now?

It didn't.

He stayed inside her even after the tremors faded.

She didn't let go.

Their breathing slowed, syncopated, messy.

But neither of them moved. Not at first. The room felt different now—warmer, quieter. Almost like it was holding its breath for them. Parker's hand slid up her spine, fingertips dragging in lazy, reverent patterns, while her heartbeat tried to remember it wasn't his to follow.

Tessa shifted slightly, the aftershocks still dancing beneath her skin like sparks refusing to die. She could feel him, still there, still pulsing faintly inside her like a promise that hadn't finished being said. Her eyes were closed, cheek pressed to his shoulder, her body flush against his—sweaty, warm, trembling.

He pressed his lips against her temple. "You okay?"

She nodded. Then whispered, "I don't want to let go."

"You don't have to."

His voice was low. Throaty. Dangerous in the way a slow song in the dark is dangerous—pulling, tempting, unraveling. He kissed her again, slower this time. Her collarbone. Her jaw. The corner of her mouth.

And just like that, the stillness cracked.

She moved beneath him, not because she had to—but because her body was already answering him, already wanting more. Her hips rolled, slow and deliberate, and the way his breath caught made her smile against his kiss.

"You're the worst kind of addiction," she murmured.

"And you're terrible at rehab," he whispered back, grinning before it melted into a groan as she clenched around him again.

The tension rebuilt fast—like they hadn't even stopped. Like round one was just the prologue to a longer, more wicked story.

Parker leaned back just enough to look at her—hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes half-lidded with that wicked glow that only burned for him. And fuck, she looked dangerous.

He kissed her—deep, heady, maddening—and began to move again. Slower than before. More intense. Like he was trying to write his name into her bones. Every thrust was steady, controlled, devastating. Every sound she made lit him up from the inside.

Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging into skin, not to hurt—but to keep from floating away.

"Parker ~"

And when she gasped his name again—so soft, so broken—it shattered something in him. Because it wasn't just lust anymore. It was everything they'd been carrying—fear, longing, trust, love—and it was all bleeding out between them like sacred fire.

She arched up to meet him and he dropped his head into the crook of her neck, breath ragged.

"Tessa," he breathed, voice wrecked.

"Don't stop."

"Couldn't if I tried."

There were no games now.

No teasing.

Just the raw, honest need to be as close as two people could get without tearing the universe in half. His hand slid under her thigh and lifted it, changing the angle, and she moaned—a sound so real, so fucking beautiful, it practically echoed.

Her body clamped around him again, and he cursed under his breath, jaw clenched, pace faltering.

She pulled him in deeper. Harder. Desperate.

And then it hit. That peak. That silent, world-breaking moment when everything went white and soundless and perfect.

Their bodies locked. Their souls cracked. And they fell—together.

When it was over, they didn't speak. They just breathed. Trembling, tangled, completely undone.

He stayed inside her again, forehead pressed to hers.

"You okay?" he whispered.

She smiled, lazy and ruined. "Ask me again in five minutes."

He chuckled, eyes falling shut. "Noted."

And outside the sun kept shining, oblivious. But in that room—in that bed—two people had just rewritten the language of closeness.

Parker lay behind her now, chest pressed to her back, their legs tangled like they forgot where one ended and the other began. One of his hands was on her waist—palm flat, fingers spread like he was holding her in place not out of fear she'd leave, but because letting go just wasn't an option.

Tessa's fingertips traced lazy lines along his knuckles. Her skin was still warm, still humming. Her eyes half-lidded, lips slightly parted from the weight of everything they'd just said with their bodies.

"I love the way you hold me," she whispered—like it wasn't a confession but a truth older than memory. "Like I'm something holy."

Parker kissed the curve of her shoulder. "You are."

Her throat bobbed. She didn't have a comeback for that. Just the ache in her chest that begged her to freeze this second and keep it forever.

He buried his nose into the crook of her neck, breathing her in like she was sanctuary. Like her scent could silence the wars in his head. His hand slid up slightly, brushing her ribs, then splaying out again—just holding.

"I don't want to leave," she said, so quiet it could've been a thought.

"You won't," he replied. "Not forever. I will come for you even if I have to trumple your whole family. Just say the word and I will come there."

She rolled to face him, and that was it—just their faces inches apart, hair a mess, eyes swollen with all the things they couldn't say without breaking the room in two. His thumb brushed her lower lip.

"I'm scared," she admitted.

He didn't ask of what. He knew.

Of what was coming. Of what might come between them.

"Then be scared, you're with me," he said.

She laughed. Choked on it. Then kissed him again—so slow it felt like she was memorizing his taste. When they pulled apart, neither moved. The sun shifted again, slipping lower, like time was being greedy.