“I want this,” he murmurs. “Messy or not.”
And God, so do I. Even if it scares me. Even if Sam’s going to lose his mind.
I press my forehead to Will’s and whisper, “Then I guess we should figure out how to tell my brother you’ve been breaking in the bed he helped me move in.”
Will grins, voice wicked. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate the craftsmanship.”
I laugh. “Probably not. Are you sure? What if we wait a few weeks?”
He watches me, that easy smirk fading into something quieter. More serious.
“If I say yes… is that because you need time or because you’re still not sure about us?”
The question lands heavy between us. I open my mouth to deflect, but stop. Because he deserves more than that now. After everything.
“I just…” I pull my legs up, wrap my arms around them. “I’ve spent so long building walls, Will. Waiting’s not about you. It’s about me not knowing how to let someone in without bracing for the fall.”
His jaw tightens, but not with anger. With understanding.
He nods slowly, reaching for my hand. “Then we don’t rush it. We don’t have to tell him today. Or tomorrow. But I’m not gonna pretend like this isn’t real just to make it easier to breathe.”
I squeeze his hand, eyes stinging. “You’re kind of a softie, you know that?”
He leans in, voice low and wicked near my ear. “I just fucked you like a man who wants to wreck you and you’re calling me a softie?”
I laugh, breathless. “Fine. A possessive, smug, sweet-talking menace.”
“Better.” Then his fingers slide up my thigh and his voice drops again, rough with promise. “But don’t think for a second I won’t make you scream my name every night before we talk to your brother.”
I look at him, heat blooming in my cheeks.
“Promises, promises.”
“Sugar,” he growls, lifting me effortlessly onto his lap. “I’m not done with you yet.”
And just like that, all my hesitation melts under the weight of the one man who saw past every wall and decided to stay anyway.
21
The next month flies by in a blur of pleasure, sex, and Will.
And I’ve never been happier.
We’re insatiable. I wake up with his hands on me, his mouth pressed to my skin, whispering filthy promises before the sun’s even fully up. He makes me breakfast shirtless, in boxers and nothing else, looking smug as hell when I can't stop staring. Most days we don’t even make it to lunch without ending up tangled in my sheets. Or the shower. Or the couch.
He leaves notes on the fridge.
Little things like"Left early, but still thinking about how you moaned last night."Or"Wear those tight jeans today. You know the ones."
Every touch is heat. Every kiss is a dare. Every time he looks at me, I feel like I’m standing at the center of a wildfire and loving the burn.
But it’s not just the sex.
He starts sleeping over more often than not. Stocking my cabinets with the creamer he likes. Fixing the squeaky hinge on my bathroom door without being asked. He even starts leaving aflannel at my place like he lives there because, truthfully, he kind of does.
We talk more, too. About everything. About nothing. About the way he never thought he’d feel this grounded with anyone. About the way I can’t believe I ever thought I wasn’t enough.
We haven’t saidI love you.
