“I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” she says quietly, her voice soft but laced with the need she’s been holding back all day. The alcohol makes her words bolder, her body warmer, the desire for him more urgent.
Dylan’s grip on the wheel tightens just slightly, but his voice remains steady. “We don’t have to rush, Ali. We can take our time.”
She leans closer, her hand finding his, squeezing it gently. The moment the car pulls into the driveway, she feels the heat in her chest intensify, the drive having only built the pressure between them. The house is quiet.
Ali looks over at him, the desire in her eyes clear. “I need you, Dylan,” she says, her voice breathless with the weight of what she’s feeling.
So It Goes…
Dylan
Her back hit the door with a soft thud, the cool wood a contrast to the heat rolling off Dylan’s body. His mouth claimed hers— desperate, hungry. His hands framed her face, then slid lower, gripping her thighs.
He grips to lift her, wanting the feel of her thighs wrapped around his waste but she pushes back.
“Babe, please,” he whispered against her lips, his voice rough. “I bench press more than you. Just trust me.”
Ali hesitated, just for a second— still not used to being handled like something someone wanted. But she didn’t look away. His eyes didn’t leave hers.
She nodded.
Dylan’s hands flexed under her thighs, lifting her with ease. Her legs locked around his waist, her arms looping around his shoulders. He walked them to the nearest wall, pinning her there, his lips crashing into hers again, then dragging down her jaw, his breath warm and ragged as he kissed the curve of her neck.
“God, you smell amazing,” he murmured, tongue tracing the place just beneath her ear. “Like sunscreen and strawberries.”
Ali gasped when his teeth grazed her pulse. Her head tipped back, fingers clutching the collar of his shirt.
He tugged at the hem of her oversized tee. “Need this off. Need you.”
She let him pull it over her head, her cheeks flushing as she sat there in just her bra and her shorts. Dylan let the shirt drop to the floor, then stilled, just for a second, eyes drinking her in like a man who’d spent a decade starving.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he said, breath catching.
Ali didn’t look away. Not for one second.
Dylan adjusted his grip and carried her down the hallway. Ali clung to him, skin flushed, heart hammering. There was no urgency now. No frantic hands or stolen heat like earlier today when he’d bent her over the kitchen counter. This was different.
He nudged her bedroom door open with his shoulder and stepped inside, moonlight catching the edge of the comforter. Ali’s arms tightened around him as he stopped at the foot of her bed.
Gently, he set her down, his hands sliding from her back to her hips, not rushing. Just… touching. His hands lingering at her waist. Her skin was warm— flushed and soft— and her breathing was already uneven.
He took a step back to look at her. Just look.
Ali stood in front of him in her pale pink bra and those tight biker shorts he’d been thinking about since she climbed into the passenger seat of the SUV that morning. God help him, he’d nearly pulled off the road when she adjusted them over her thighs.
“You good?” he asked, voice low, thumb brushing her side.
She nodded, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, but not looking away.
He took his time, unhooking her bra and peeling it off, then letting his fingers run along the edge of her shorts.
“Earlier…” he said, watching her face, “that was need. This is something more.”
She shivered.
He dropped to his knees.
He needed her to feel this. To feel him. Not just his body but all the years between them— what he’d wanted to say, what he still couldn’t say, not yet. So he kissed the curve of her stomach, just above the waistband, then the inside of her thigh. Her hand found his shoulder, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
