The strangled noise he makes is sheer surrender.
One slick stroke of his hand. Two. Then—
"Fuuuuck—!"
The first hot stripe lands just shy of my parted lips, the rest splattering across my cheek, my collarbone, even catching on the swell of my breast. It's messy and obscene, and I can't help the soft moan that escapes when a stray burst lands between my lips against my tongue—warm and salty and his.
He braces one forearm against the wall above me, his chest heaving, staring down at me with something like reverence.
"Fuck," he breathes again, but it sounds different now—softer, deeper. "You're beautiful like this."
Swallowing hard, I drag a lazy fingertip through the sticky, cooling mess still glistening on my collarbone, letting my touch linger just to watch his reaction. His breath hitches audibly as I slowly bring it to my lips, maintaining eye contact the entire time. Challenging, deliberate. The flat edge of my tongue darts out to lick the bitter-salty taste from my skin, and his jaw clenches visibly.
The grin I give him isn't just smug—it's downright victorious, the kind that comes from knowing exactly what effect you’re having on someone. My cheeks still feel hot, my limbs loose and buzzing. Normally, I'd make a quip here, something sarcastic to cut through the tension. But words seem unnecessary when the proof of my effect on him is still dripping between my breasts.
And oh fuck, the way he looks at me, like I’ve hung the fucking stars, like there’s nothing more mesmerizing than me kneeling there, marked and unrepentant. It lights something molten low in my belly.
Not just wanted. Needed.
For once, I don’t question it. I just sink into the feeling, into the possessive weight of his gaze—letting myself believe, just for this moment, that I really am everything he sees.
Completely, deliciously claimed. And for the first time in years
I don’t hate how much I like it.
For a long, breathless moment, we stay perfectly still. Him towering over me in the dim light of the closet, both of us panting with exertion, our skin flushed and damp with sweat and the unmistakable evidence of our desperate need for each other. The air between us feels charged.
Then, with a reverence that makes my chest tight, he carefully pulls me to my feet. His strong hands—hands that had just moments ago been rough and demanding—now cradle my face with a tenderness that threatens to undo me completely. He presses his lips to mine in a deep, languid kiss that tastes of salt and satisfaction, uncaring of the sticky mess still cooling between us.
"That was..." he starts, his voice rough, trailing off with a helpless shake of his head. His thumb brushes along my cheekbone, smearing something I'm too blissed-out to care about.
"Yeah," I murmur against his mouth, equally incapable of forming coherent thoughts. My usual quick wit fails me entirely. No sarcastic remark, no deflective joke—just raw, unfiltered agreement. Becausenothingcould have prepared me for how thoroughly he’d just wrecked me.
He lifts his shirt over his head in a smooth, practiced motion, and with gentle care, uses the soft fabric to clean my face and chest. His touch is reverent, almost worshipful, as he wipes away the evidence of our passion. His fingers linger on my skin, tracing delicate patterns that send fresh waves deep to my core. The tender attentiveness in his eyes makes my breath catch, it's so at odds with the feral hunger that consumed him just minutes ago.
Then he wraps his strong arms around me, pulling me against his bare chest in a protective embrace. I nestle into him, my cheek pressed against hiswarm skin, inhaling his scent, a heady mixture of cedar, sweat, and something uniquely him. Our bodies fit together perfectly, like two puzzle pieces designed for each other.
"Not exactly how I planned to welcome you home," he murmurs into my hair.
I laugh softly. "Complaining?"
"Hell, no." He pulls back to look at me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "But I did have other plans. Lunch reservations. Flowers."
"There's still time for lunch" I say, tracing the line of his jaw with my fingertip. "Though I'm not sure I can walk straight."
His smile is pure male satisfaction. "Maybe we skip the restaurant? Order some DoorDash?"
"Perfect." I lean up to kiss him again, softer this time. "Though we should probably get cleaned up before Emily comes looking for us."
"Your sister has the worst timing." He groans, as he reluctantly pulls away and retrieves his jeans from the floor. I watch, enjoying the flex of his muscles as he dresses. Then his hands are on me, helping slide my sweater over my head, fingers lingering as he adjusts the collar.
"Much as I prefer you without this," he murmurs against my neck.
I can't help but blush as his hands linger at my collar, his eyes still heated.
He grabs my hand and our fingers interlocked as we navigate back through the hallway toward our room.
Once in our room, he disappears into our closet, emerging moments later with a dark grey t-shirt stretched across his chest. I twist my hair into a high ponytail, still feeling deliciously sore in all the right places and I see he's watching me from the bed, his eyes tracing my movements with undisguised appreciation.
