He pushed me back against the door, hands gentle now, mouth softer. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful—tracing every freckle, every scar, every inch he’d only been allowed to look at before.
“You sure?” he whispered, his forehead pressed to mine, hands cupping my jaw.
I nodded, too full for words. He breathed out, shaky, then kissed me again, mouth gentle, tongue teasing, hands running down my sides to the backs of my thighs. He lifted me easily, carried me the few steps to the bed, laying me down like I was something precious.
He hovered over me, eyes searching, hands shaking as he brushed the hair off my forehead. I pulled him down, guiding him until he was sprawled over me, our bodies aligning perfectly, heat to heat.
He kissed me again, slow and deep, then moved lower, pressing his mouth to my chest, my stomach, my hipbones. Iarched into every touch, every kiss, feeling worshipped, wanted, known.
We took our time then, learning each other all over again—slow kisses, gentle hands, laughter and tears and whispered promises. He stripped me down to my underwear, then let me do the same to him, each piece of clothing peeled away like a secret finally shared.
By the time we were both down to nothing but briefs, the tension between us was electric—every touch sparking, every breath stolen. He cupped my face, kissed me softly, and whispered, “Stay.”
“Always,” I promised, and meant it.
He smiled, small and raw, then settled beside me, our legs tangled, hands roaming, exploring, savoring. We pressed together, skin to skin, letting the moment stretch, letting ourselves believe it was real.
I traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder, the muscles shifting under skin that felt like home. He caught my hand, pressed a kiss to my palm, then looked at me like I was the answer to a question he’d been asking for years.
“I never stopped wanting you,” he said, voice shaking with honesty.
I pressed my forehead to his, closing my eyes. “Me neither.”
For a moment, neither of us moved—caught in the kind of silence that buzzes with electricity, hearts pounding out the same frantic beat. Evan’s hand was still wrapped around mine, thumb stroking circles against my palm, but his other hand had slipped down to my hip, fingers flexing like he couldn’t decide whether to pull me closer or just hold on tight.
He made the decision for both of us.
Evan rolled, shifting his weight until he was half on top of me, one thick thigh shoved between mine. The heat of his skin bled through the thin cotton of our briefs, every inch ofcontact sparking more heat. He looked down at me, eyes hungry and dark, jaw tight with restraint. It was the softest kind of dominance—no push or order, just the raw promise of being handled, of being claimed.
His hand slid up my chest, palm wide and warm, thumb flicking over my nipple through the fabric. I gasped, arching into his touch, chasing it, needing more. He grinned, low and rough, and bent to mouth at my throat, teeth grazing, tongue tracing the frantic pulse there.
“You feel that?” he whispered, voice pitched low and intimate, breath hot against my skin. “Your heart’s racing for me.”
I shivered, wrapping my arms around his broad back, dragging my nails down his spine. He groaned, biting down a little harder, just enough to make me gasp, then soothed the sting with a slow, wet lick. My hips rolled up, searching for friction, and his thigh pressed between my legs, forcing my cock against the hard muscle.
I moaned, helpless, grinding down on him, desperate for any relief. The pressure was perfect—just enough to make my whole body thrum, not nearly enough to satisfy.
Evan smiled against my neck, low and possessive. “That’s it. Ride me.”
His hands were everywhere—skimming down my ribs, palming my ass, kneading muscle, learning every inch like he was building me from memory. He squeezed, pulled me tight against him, rolling his hips so the thick line of his cock pressed right against mine, nothing but two layers of cotton keeping us from skin to skin.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice going soft but wicked, “already leaking for me.” His palm cupped me through my briefs, thumb pressing the wet spot at the tip, rubbing slow, making me twitch. “You want it so bad, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I choked out, barely able to speak. “Been thinking about this for years—about you, your hands, your mouth—fuck, Evan, please?—”
He silenced me with a kiss, hard and claiming, tongue plunging deep, tasting every word before I could say it. His hand squeezed my cock, slow and tight, thumb teasing the ridge, dragging slick through the fabric, making everything slippery and obscene.
“Say you want it,” he ordered, voice a rough rasp in my ear, hips grinding, cock heavy and hot against my thigh. “Say you want me to take you apart.”
“I want it,” I whispered, no shame left. “Want you to ruin me. Want you to show me who I belong to.”
He hummed, pleased, mouth moving down my throat, biting along my collarbone, marking me up. His hands mapped my body—sliding under the waistband of my briefs, fingertips skimming just above where I needed him most. He took his time, teasing, pushing me to the edge and pulling back before I could fall.
His fingers found my nipples, rolling them between callused pads, pinching until I whimpered, then soothing with slow, gentle circles. He watched me fall apart, eyes dark, mouth twisted in a satisfied smirk.
“You like that?” he asked, voice gone syrup-slow. “You like my hands on you?”
I nodded, hips rocking, cock aching, desperate for more. He let me grind against his thigh, the friction rough and perfect, my briefs clinging, wet and filthy.
