He moves slow at first. Like he’s savoring every inch, every moan, every stutter of my breath. Then he picks up the pace, grinding into me, one hand gripping my hip while the other wraps around the back of my neck like he can’t stand the idea of being too far away.
His voice turns to gravel at my ear.
“Gonna make you come just like this,” he growls. “My cock deep in you, my name on your lips. No hiding. No pretending.”
I arch into him, chasing that sharp edge as he thrusts harder, rougher, perfectly filthy.
“Will—”
“That’s it. Say it again.”
“Will—please?—”
He fucks me through it, holds me tight when I come, clenching around him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails dragging down his back.
He groans, low and broken, and finishes with a deep, punishing thrust, burying himself as far as he can go and staying there, gasping against my neck. We lie there, tangled and breathless, sweat-slicked skin pressed together. And in the quiet after, his thumb brushes over my cheek.
“You feel it too, don’t you?”
I nod. And for a second I almost say it. But instead, I kiss him slow and deep.
And I know he hears it anyway.
25
Will and I are sitting in his office. I’m curled up on the couch with my laptop, going over the final draft of my latest article. He’s at his desk, elbows resting on spreadsheets, brow furrowed as he works through his inventory list, a cigar sitting in the ashtray by him.
The quiet between us is easy. Domestic, even. The kind of quiet that feels earned.
Every few minutes, I glance up just to look at him because I can’t help it. Because somehow, even like this, half-distracted and muttering about whiskey orders, he still makes my chest ache.
Apparently, I’m not as subtle as I think, because without looking up, Will says, “Keep lookin’ at me like that, sugar, and I swear, these bottles aren’t gonna get counted.”
I smile. “Party pooper.”
He leans back in his chair and stretches, arms behind his head, his eyes meeting mine.
“You think about it anymore?”
My heart skips a beat. “About what?”
He doesn’t look away. “Tellin’ Sam.”
The air shifts just enough to make me pause.
I close my laptop and set it on the cushion table beside me. “Yeah,” I say softly. “I think about it.”
He nods, waiting.
“And?” he asks.
I draw in a slow breath, choosing my words. “I’m not ready. Not yet.”
Will watches me, quiet.
“I just…” I shrug. “Can we give it another month?”
His brow lifts, but he doesn’t speak.
