“I’m damn well going to feel that strangle my cock. So you’ll wait.” He rises to his feet and unbuttons his shirt with deliberate slowness, holding my gaze the entire time.
“Ohhh.” It slips out before I can catch it, because seeing him like this—bare-chested in the red light, eyes black with want, mouth still wet with me—almost sends me over the edge rightthere.
That's me on his lips. Me he's been devouring. Me he's been dreaming about for eleven years.
“I’ve waited too goddamn long for this and I’m not missing another second.”
He unbuckles his belt. The metal clinks loud in the quiet.
His jeans drop to the floor next and and before they even land, he’s hooking his thumbs in his boxer briefs, and sending them to meet them.
And god, I'd forgotten. Or maybe I'd made myself forget, because remembering would have made the loneliness unbearable. But seeing him now—hard and thick and straining toward me, a bead of moisture already glistening at the tip—it all comes rushing back.
Every stolen moment in the back of his truck. Every desperate fumble in the Shred Shack. Every time I touched myself in the dark and pretended my fingers were his.
“Come here,” I breathe.
He scoops me up onto the counter—chemicals be damned—and steps between my thighs. The tip of him presses against me, teasing, not pushing inside.
Not yet.
I whimper. Actually whimper. And I don't even care.
“Say it,” he demands, his voice low and gritty. “Say you want this.”
My fingers dig into his shoulders. “I want this.”
“Say you want me.”
“I want you.” I wrap my legs around him, try to pull him closer, but he holds back, making me earn everyinch. “I've always wanted you. I never stopped wanting you. Please, Everett,please?—”
He fists my hair and forces my gaze to his. With a harsh thrust, he buries himself deep in one long, devastating stroke.
We both freeze.
Both gasp.
Both grip each other like the world is ending and this is the only solid thing left.
Full. Finally full. Finally whole.
“Fuck.” His forehead drops to mine. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding still. “Fuck, Sierra. You feel—I can't?—”
“Wait.”
The word comes out before I can stop it.
He freezes, then pulls back just enough to look at me, panic flickering in his eyes. “What's wrong? Did I hurt?—”
“No.” I shake my head, rolling my forehead against his. Back and forth. Breathing him in. “No, I just—I need?—”
I can't get the words out. My chest is too full. My throat too tight. Every nerve ending in my body screams at me to move, to chase the pleasure, to lose myself in the feeling of him finally, finally inside me.
But I can't. Not yet.
Not until I give him this.
Not until I give myself this.
