October 7th, 1997
I kiss her like she’s oxygen, like I’ve been suffocating for years and this is the first breath that doesn’t hurt.
And when she moans into me—fuck, I lose it.
I grip her tighter, hips flush to hers, and she trembles in my hands.Every inch of me screams to go slower, savor this, and make it last.But I’m not built for patience where she’s concerned.Not after years of wanting, of not knowing if I’d ever get to touch her again.
I break the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Let’s go to my bedroom—unless you want us to stop.”
She nods, eyes wide and glassy, lips red and swollen from mine.I grab her hand, lacing our fingers like it means something—because it fucking does—and I pull her with me down the hall, past the life I’ve been pretending to live without her.
My bedroom door shuts behind us with a soft, weighted click.
And for a second, I just look at her.
I want to remember this.The way she’s standing there, chest rising and falling, her fingers twitching like she doesn’t know what to do with all the feelings running through her.Neither do I.I just know I can’t not touch her.
Not now.Not when she’s here.Not when I’ve been haunted by every version of her I’ve imagined and never thought I’d get again.
I step closer and lift the hem of her shirt.“Tell me if you want me to stop,” I insist.
She doesn’t stop me.Doesn’t speak.Just raises her arms so I can pull it over her head.My hands skim her skin, slow and reverent, like she’s something sacred I forgot how to worship.
Her bra is lacy and soft and goddamn perfect.I drag my fingers down the strap along her shoulder, then across her collarbone, dipping low to the swell of her breast.She shivers.
“Tell me to stop,” I rasp, throat wrecked with need.
She doesn’t.
Her hands find my hips, fingers slipping under my shirt, and I swear I see stars.She pushes it up, and I help her, yanking it off, needing her skin on mine like a prayer I’m afraid I’ll never get to say again.
I drop my lips to her shoulder.Then her neck.Then lower.
Every inch of her gets a kiss.A stroke of my mouth.A promise sealed in heat and desperation.It’s not just lust—it’s possession.Worship.A mark that says: you’re here, and I’m not fucking letting go this time.
I reach behind her, fingers finding the clasp of her bra, and when it comes undone, I let the straps fall like unraveling threads.The lace slips down her arms, and I watch it drop to the floor like it’s a goddamn sacrament.
My breath catches.
She’s more beautiful than I remembered.
I groan as I take in the soft swell of her breasts, the dusky tips already tight and begging.And I’m done being gentle.
I dip my head and wrap my lips around one perfect nipple, sucking slow and deep until she arches with a gasp that punches straight through my spine.Her fingers sink into my hair, tugging, anchoring me there like she needs this as badly as I do.
“Yes, Roderick,” she breathes, hips shifting against mine.
I grin against her skin and drag my tongue across to the other, licking a slow, maddening circle around it without touching the center—just to hear her whimper.Just to feel her body twist beneath mine, begging for more.
“You still like this,” I murmur, voice low, teasing.I run the flat of my tongue over her nipple, then flick it with the tip—once, twice, a slow torment.“Still love it when I play with you, don’t you?”
Her only answer is another gasp—higher, tighter.
I suck again, this time harder.Then graze my teeth over her just enough to make her body jerk, her thighs clench around me.I palm both breasts, kneading, circling her nipples with my thumbs while my mouth keeps working her into something desperate.
“You’re so fucking sensitive,” I whisper.“I could spend all night here, making you come just from this.”
She moans, breath shuddering.Her nails rake down my back, and I can feel how close she is to unraveling—just from my mouth on her chest, just from my voice coaxing every needy sound from her lips.
