He takes one slow step toward me. Then another.
When he reaches me, he lifts his hand and gently tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. His touch is soft, but his eyes are heat and full of intention.
“I need you to know,” he says quietly, “if you tell me to stop, I will.”
My voice is barely sound. “I don’t want you to stop.”
His breath leaves him in one slow exhale, like he’s been waiting for those words longer than I knew.
Then he kisses me again. Deep. Hungry. Certain.
My back meets the edge of the couch as his hands slide up my sides, fingertips grazing my ribs and sending sparks everywhere. My fingers tangle in his hair once again, pulling him closer, because now that I’ve tasted this, I need more.
He trails his mouth along my jaw, down my neck, slow enough to make me shake. “You good?” he murmurs against my skin.
“Yes.” It comes out more breath than word.
His hands slide to my hips and he lifts me effortlessly, setting me down onto the couch. My dress hikes up my thighs, and his gaze drops like gravity pulls it there.
He joins me, one knee on the cushion, one foot still grounded on the floor like he’s anchoring us both. Our mouths crash together again, but this time it’s messy and raw, like we’ve run out of patience to be civilized.
His hand slides up my thigh and I gasp into him. He swallows the sound with a low groan that sends heat straight through me.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, voice rough.
“It’s not enough.”
His eyes lift to mine… dark, blown, undone.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’m not done with you."
Something in me snaps. It’s not fear, not doubt, but just the final thread holding back everything I’ve been trying to deny.
My breath trembles out of me and I look at him, really look. The way he’s watching me like I’m something rare, something he’s finally allowed to touch. Something he’s not letting go of.
My voice is quiet, shaky, and honest. "Bryce…" I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
He does.
His hands slide beneath me again, steady, strong, and before I can think, he lifts me off the couch.
Not fast. Not frantic. Slow. Like I’m breakable and precious and his.
My arms loop around his shoulders on instinct and he captures my mouth in another kiss, deep and claiming, the kind that makes my legs weak and my thoughts dissolve. And somewhere in the dizzy chaos of tongue and heat and want, my brain throws every unhelpful theory it can find.
Is this rebound sex?
Is this what people mean when they say you need to sleep with someone to get over your ex?
Or is this just Bryce… his mouth, his hands, his impossible gravitational pull… rewiring every cell in my body until logic packs a suitcase and leaves town?
I barely notice we’re moving until my back meets something soft.
The bed.
Chapter twelve
Bryce
