They didn’t stop.

Even after the first wave left her shaking, legs trembling, eyes glassy with the aftermath—John kept going.

His mouth moved back up her body like a man tracing sacred ground, tasting her skin with the same reverence he’d give an answered prayer. He kissed her ribs, her sternum, the curve just under her breast—the places men forgot, only someone devoted would remember.

He slid two fingers inside her, slow and deep, his other hand holding her hip steady. But it wasn’t just the thrust—it was the curl. The way he coaxed her open with such practiced control it felt like spellwork. Like he was conjuring her pleasure straight from the core.

“John,” she gasped, hips bucking, her voice all honey and disbelief.

He groaned against her neck, hot and low. “That’s it. Let me feel that again.”

And she did.

She gave it to him.

Her body rolled beneath him, hips moving with instinct, the sound of wet heat echoing beneath the music. His fingers stroked her pussy with unrelenting rhythm, curling just right, the pads of his fingers dragging across the rough spot that made her knees fly up, her thighs clamp around his wrist.

“Right there,” she moaned. “Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

She was soaking his hand, soaking her sheets, slick wetness pouring out of her, and he loved it—he loved that he was the reason she was making a mess, the way her body responded, the pressure building like a storm behind her eyes.

He whispered in her ear while he worked her through it.

“You know what you do to me? You know how good this pussy is?”

Candy couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

She just broke.

With a shuddering cry, her whole body spasmed, hips lifting off the bed, walls clenching down on his fingers like she never wanted to let him go. And then—

The flood came.

A gush. Wet. Primal. Raw.

John swore under his breath.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, still moving his hand as her body pulsed and shivered and seized around him. “You just squirted for me.”

She blinked through the haze, stunned, soaking the sheets beneath her, the red light casting her in shadows and shine.

He kissed her hard, fingers still inside, but slowing now.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, legs still spread, bare, marked, and claimed.

“You’re a fucking magician,” she whispered.

He smiled against her cheek.

“Nah,” he said, “You’re just magic.”