Xavier didn't stop. Not when Angel's voice gave out. Not when her body went limp beneath him. Not when her nails stopped digging into his skin and her fingers just twitched against the sheets. He fucked her until she was nothing but a trembling, overstimulated mess—until her whimpers turned to silence, until her body could only take, not resist.
Only then did he finally pull out, his own breath ragged, his skin slick with sweat. Angel lay sprawled on the bed, her limbs heavy, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. She didn't move. She couldn't.
Xavier stood, his muscles loose with exhaustion, and grabbed a long wool robe from the pile of spare clothes in the room. He pulled it on, the fabric thick and warm against his skin. The room was a wreck—sheets tangled, furniture knocked askew, and the room filled with the scent of sex.
