She gasps when I press my tongue up against the damp fabric of her underwear, licking slowly along the seam until the taste of her soaks through. Salt and musk, sharp and sweet, makes my pulse hammer. I press harder, tongue dragging from her entrance to the swell of her clit, and her whole body jerks, thighs clamping around my head.
I glance up. Her eyes roll back, lashes fluttering, mouth open in a broken moan. That flash of surrender makes my cock twitch against the couch cushion.
“I’ve been so horny,” she whispers, almost like she’s confessing.
“That’s perfectly normal,” I murmur against her, lips brushing the edge of her folds. I hook my thumb under the fabric and pull it aside, plunging my tongue deep into her. She tastes slick and alive, her walls pulsing around me, and I drink it down like I’m starving.
“You don’t have to be so clinical.” She gasps, hips rocking helplessly against my face. Her gasp spikes into a strangled cry when I flatten my tongue against her clit, circling slow, teasing the swollen hood until she whimpers.
I grin against her, my voice rough. “Trust me, I’d be arrested bythe guardsif this was me being clinical, love.”
With a sharp tug, I rip her underwear down her legs and toss it aside. Her thighs fall open and I hook them over my shoulders, lifting her ass off the couch so her pussy is right there, open and wanting. She squeals a breathless laugh, but it melts into a groan when I line myself up, the fat head of my cock pushing through her slick folds.
I slide just an inch inside, stretching her around me, then pull back out, rubbing along her soaked entrance. Her wetness slicks me, every pass making me harder, heavier. She’s panting, pressing her palms into the couch cushions like she can ground herself.
The restraint shreds. I thrust into her slow but deep, burying myself inch by inch until her heat clamps down on me, tight, wet, hot. A groan rips from my chest. The feeling of her wrapped around me is overwhelming, the stretch pulling at every nerve, and I have to squeeze my eyes shut to keep from spilling right then.
She arches up, back bowing, her cunt gripping me like it never wants to let go. My name spills from her lips, breathless, needy, and it makes me throb inside her.
I brace her thighs, pinning her open, and start to move. Long, grinding strokes at first, dragging every inch of me against every inch of her. The couch squeaks under us, ridiculous, and she giggles—until I snap my hips harder, burying myself deeper, and the giggle breaks into a moan.
The rhythm builds. Wet sounds echo with each thrust, obscene, filling the small room. She’s gasping, nails digging into thecouch, body rocking with mine. Her clit grinds against me each time I bottom out, and her moans pitch higher, tighter.
“God, Sean,” she whimpers, and it nearly undoes me.
I don’t hide behind humor. I let her see it—the want carved raw across my face, the way my chest heaves, the way my body strains with the effort not to lose myself. She clenches around me, fluttering, and the pulse of her orgasm grips me so hard I can’t hold back. I groan into her ankle, biting softly at the bone, then kissing up the inside of her calf as I drive into her one last time, spilling inside her with a low, guttural sound.
Afterward, we collapse into the wreckage of blankets and clothes. I slide down onto the floor beside the couch, chest still heaving, skin slick with sweat. My hand finds her hip, thumb tracing lazy circles over the curve, grounding myself in her warmth.
She threads her fingers through my damp hair, gentler than I know what to do with, gentler than I deserve.
“I thought you came here to cook,” she teases, voice soft but hoarse from moaning.
“I did.” My grin is crooked, spent but honest. “Multi-talented, me.”
She laughs, but her eyes linger on me like she saw more than I wanted to show—like she caught the flicker when my smile faltered, the weight I can’t always keep hidden.
And I know, lying here with her heartbeat still trembling under my palm and the echo of her shudder around me, that nothing between us will ever be simple again.
12
ROWAN
Hospitals at nightare all hum and hush.
The NICU wing is no different. Lights turned low, machines blinking like constellations, voices pitched soft because every sound feels too loud against skin that’s still translucent, lungs still learning.
I walk these halls more than I need to.
At night, sometimes, I come by and look into the glass at the babies in their little alien-like pods, their bodies alien too, and I remember the life that the late nights are for, what’s at stake.
Old habit. Keeps me steady, keeps me sharp. You don’t forget to be soft when you see the fight these little ones put up. You don’t get too soft either. It’s a delicate balance.
I’m not ready to round the corner and see her there, doing the same. Her elbow rests in her freckled, manicured hand, and her chin rests in her other hand. Her sweatshirt is slipping off one of her shoulders, and I’m jolted to see what looks like a hickey blooming there. I’d be jealous if I thought I had any right to an emotion like that.
Curls frame her face delicately, and in the yellow glow of the dimly lit hallway, I can just make out an expression that’s hard to name—sadness, fear, peace. All the things that babies bring us all. She looks tired more than anything, still beautiful, butin bits.
I turn to walk away, to find a different solace—this one taken—but she spots me first, a startle giving way to a gentle smile. “Rowan. Hi.” Her hands come down, and her shoulders relax.
