But he shakes his head, reaching up to touch my face with trembling fingers. “I don’t want to stop. I just—” He swallows hard. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Neither do I,” I admit. “Not really. We can figure it out together.”
Something in his expression shifts—relief, maybe, or recognition that he doesn’t have to have all the answers. When I move slowly to straddle his thigh, giving him time to object, he tenses for just a moment before relaxing into it. His hands come up to rest on my waist, tentative but sure.
“Close your eyes,” I whisper against the curve of his neck. “If it helps… picture her.”
“I don’t think I want to.” The words come out rough, honest. “I think I just want this. With you.”
They hit something deep in my chest that I didn’t know was waiting.
“Good.”
I slide down slowly, giving him time to process, to object if he wants to. When my knees hit gravel, I look up at him.
“Can I?”
His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, but there’s trust there too. He nods, then seems to realize that might not be enough.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah, I want—please.”
My hands move to his belt, fingers careful and deliberate. He lifts his hips slightly to help when I work his jeans down just enough. The simple cooperation, the trust in the gesture, makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
One of his hands comes to rest in my hair, not pushing or guiding, just touching. Like he needs the connection as much as I do.
This isn’t about taking. It’s about giving something real, something that matters. About quieting the gnawing emptiness by focusing entirely on someone else’s need.
I start slow, just my mouth against him, tasting salt and warmth. His breathing changes immediately, becomes uneven and sharp. The handin my hair tightens slightly, and I can feel the tension radiating through his whole body.
“Fuck—Wes—” The words come out broken, desperate.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur against his skin, meaning it in every possible way.
I take him deeper, setting a careful rhythm. He tastes like need and trust, and every soft sound he makes sends heat through my chest. His thighs tremble on either side of me, and I can feel him fighting to stay still, to not overwhelm me.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, pulling back just enough to speak. “Let go.”
When I return to him, using my tongue to trace patterns that make him gasp, his control finally cracks. His hips jerk slightly, and the hand in my hair goes from gentle to desperate.
“I’m close,” he warns, voice rough, then lets out a strangled laugh. “Fuck, I feel like a teenager again.”
I hum against him in response, doubling my efforts, and feel the exact moment he surrenders completely. His whole body goes taut, back arching off the stone wall as he comes apart with a broken sound that’s half my name, half prayer.
The taste of him floods my mouth, and I work him through it until his whole body shudders and the hand in my hair goes gentle, almost reverent.
I rest my forehead against his thigh for a moment, both of us breathing hard.
A memory flashes through me—the first time Bree fed me. That breathless fullness, like every hollow space inside me had been filled with light. The way I felt seen, chosen, complete.
This feels… different. Closer, somehow. Like instead of being filled from the outside, something inside me is finally awake.
Then Jace is sliding down beside me, chest rising and falling in sync with mine. Neither of us speaks for a long moment. The silence doesn’t feel empty now—it feels full of something I can’t name.
“Still hungry?” he asks finally.
“Less than before.”
“Good.”
