The practical conversation should feel awkward. Instead it just feels like more trust. More honesty. More of what's been building between us.
"Tell me what you want," he says, his voice low near my ear.
The directness in his tone—clinical almost, like he's gathering intelligence—should irritate me. Instead it makes everything sharper. "You," I manage. "All of you. No holding back."
"You won't break," Dylan agrees. "But I might."
The vulnerability in those words catches me off guard. Reminds me that for all his tactical planning and measured control, he's as uncertain about this as I am. As desperate for connection. As tired of containment.
I pull him down to me. "Then break with me."
His mouth finds mine again, slower now. More deliberate. Then he's kissing down my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive spot where my pulse jumps under his lips. I arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair as his mouth continues lower.
He takes his time. Learns me with the same focused intensity he brings to everything. His hands slide up my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts. When his mouth follows,I make a sound I've never heard myself make before—desperate and needy and completely beyond my control.
"Dylan—"
"Tell me," he says against my skin. His breath is warm, teasing. "Tell me what you need."
"You. Inside me. Now."
He kisses back up my body slowly, deliberately ignoring my demand. Takes his time kissing me until I'm writhing beneath him, until my hands are gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
When he finally settles between my thighs, the weight of him pressing me into the mattress feels like relief and torture at once. He braces himself on one forearm, uses his other hand to guide himself. The first slow press makes my breath catch.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. Find his already fixed on my face, watching every flicker of sensation cross my features. He pushes deeper—slow, controlled, giving me time to adjust. The stretch is perfect. The fullness overwhelming.
"Okay?" His voice is strained, like holding back costs him everything.
"Yes. God, yes."
He begins to move. Long, measured strokes that make me clench around him. His hand slides under my hip, angles me so each thrust hits deeper. Pleasure sparks up my spine with every movement.
I wrap my legs around him, heels digging into his lower back to pull him closer, deeper. He groans—a rough, primal sound that makes heat pool low in my belly. His control is fraying. I can feel it in the way his breathing turns ragged, in the tension coiled through his shoulders.
"Harder," I tell him.
He complies. The pace increases, measured control giving way to raw need. The sound of skin on skin fills the room. His hand moves from my hip to grip the headboard, using the leverage to drive deeper. Each thrust pushes the air from my lungs.
My nails rake down his back. He hisses but doesn't slow. If anything, the edge of pain seems to push him further. The bed frame protests with our movements, rhythmic creaking that should embarrass me but doesn't.
The tension builds, coiling tighter with every stroke. I'm close—so close I can barely think past the need for release. But Dylan's reading my body like a manual, keeping me right on the edge without letting me tip over.
"Please," I gasp.
His hand releases the headboard, slides between our bodies. Finds the bundle of nerves that makes my whole body lock up. Two circles of his thumb and I'm gone—falling into pleasure so intense my vision goes white. I cry out his name, body clenching around him in waves.
Dylan's control shatters. His rhythm falters, becomes erratic. Then he's driving into me hard and deep, chasing his own release. When it hits, he groans into my neck, his whole body shuddering as he empties himself inside me.
Afterward, his arm stays wrapped around my waist. My head rests on his chest, one leg thrown over his hip. The sheets stick to our damp skin. His heartbeat gradually slows under my ear, evening out from the frantic rhythm it held moments ago.
The lamp still glows on the nightstand. Illuminating the photograph I glimpsed earlier—the woman with dark hair and the young girl smiling at the camera.
"Your family," I say quietly.
Dylan's chest rises with a deep breath. "Lisa and Maya. Thirteen years ago."
