“You okay up there?” she teases, her voice low and full of heat.
“Barely,” I grit out, fingers tightening in her hair. “You’re trying to ruin me.”
She grins and sinks her mouth back over me, deeper this time, sucking harder—letting her lips glide, her tongue swirl, and her hands stroke what she can’t take.
I try to breathe, attempt to stay grounded, but she’s making it impossible.
She hums around me—filthy and beautiful—and my thighs tense as I fight the pull of release.
“Stella… baby,” I gasp, trying to hold on. “I’m not gonna last if you keep—”
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “Then don’t. I want it.”
And I lose it.
I come with her name on my lips, hands tangled in her hair as she takes everything I give her.
She stays there a moment longer, slow and sweet, licking me clean like I’m dessert and she’s not done indulging.
When she finally leans back, she wipes the corner of her mouth with her thumb and crawls into my lap like nothing just shattered me.
I hold her against my chest, heart still thudding, lips pressed to her temple.
“You’re dangerous,” I murmur, still breathless. “You know that?”
She smiles, smug and satisfied. “That’s why you love me.”
Stella
We spend the next few hours on the back of Grimm—Donovan's black Honda Rebel—the engine purring beneath us like it knows our secrets.
My arms rest loosely on his thighs now, not around his waist like they used to. After a few rides with Donovan, I’ve finally stopped feeling like I need to cling for dear life. I trust him. Trust the curve of the road under his hands, the hum of the bike between us.
We coast through the hills until Devil’s Cove comes into view, the sky overhead a wash of golden haze and late-afternoon blues. Ansel and Theo are meeting us there—and honestly, I’m surprised he’s stayed this long. I figured he’d be a one-weekend-and-done kind of guy. Guess Ansel’s chaos is harder to quit than she thinks.
We pull into the cracked parking lot of the Last Stop, and Donovan kills the engine. The tavern looks the same as always—faded wood, chipped neon, and the faint smell of salt and smoke lingering in the air.
Inside, it’s dim and loud. Ansel and Theo are already at the bar, deep in whatever heated conversation has her arms waving like she’s conducting a symphony of sass.
“She’s mid-tirade,” I say, pointing.
Donovan grins. “Bet it’s about tequila”
Sure enough, as we get closer, I catch the tail end of Ansel’s rant.
“Whiskey istrash juice,Theo. It tastes like regret and poor choices. Tequila is the superior drink, and I will die on that hill.”
Theo raises his glass in surrender. “You also said that about mezcal last week.”
Ansel ignores him, turning to me. “Back me up here, Stell. Tequila supremacy, right?”
I hesitate. Because the truth?
I only drink tequila becauseshedoes.
I just shake my head and sit at the bar. I order a locally brewed beer and enjoy the company I have.
Huxley comes over, talking to Donovan and me like we all go way back. We start discussing potential wedding dates. There are already a few in the books—okay, more than a few. Most of the spring is packed.
