“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Kade chants, his movements becoming erratic. His eyes stay locked on mine as he follows me over the edge, hips stuttering as he buries himself deep inside me one final time.
For several long moments, neither of us moves. Kade collapses on top of me, his breath hot against my neck, his heart thundering against my chest. The weight of him should be uncomfortable, but I welcome it, crave it, want to be anchored by it.
Eventually, he lifts his head, studying my face. “You okay?”
I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet. He carefully pulls out, both of us wincing at the sensation. Then he reaches for the key on the dresser, returning to unlock the handcuffs.
As the metal falls away, Kade takes my wrists in his hands, thumbs stroking over the red marks left behind. The touchis gentle, almost reverent—so different from the passionate intensity of moments before.
“Should have taken these off first,” he murmurs, bringing one wrist to his lips. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You didn’t,” I assure him, my voice hoarse. “I liked it.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He cleans us both with tissues from the bedside table, then stretches out beside me on the bed. For a long moment, we lie in silence, staring at the ceiling, processing what just happened.
“So,” Kade says, turning his head to look at me. “Not Serena, huh?”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected and genuine. “No. Definitely not Serena.”
His hand finds mine on the mattress between us, our fingers intertwining. The simple contact feels more intimate than everything that came before.
“Kade, what happens now?” I ask, the question barely audible.
His thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I’m not going anywhere.”
I turn to face him, taking in the familiar features that look different now—the curve of his mouth, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the warmth in his eyes I never noticed before.
“Good,” I say simply. “Because neither am I.”
8
Kade
One month later
MY PALMS ARE SWEATING like I’ve dipped them in the pool. I wipe them against my jeans for the hundredth time as Emmett and I walk the familiar path to the main house, our shoes crunching on gravel in sync. One month. One perfect, terrifying, life-altering month of being with my stepbrother in ways that rewrite everything I thought I knew about myself. Now we’re about to blow up our carefully constructed world by telling our parents over pot roast and mashed potatoes. That idea makes my heart slam against my ribs.
“You okay?” Emmett asks, his voice low. His fingers brush against mine—a fleeting touch, casual enough to look accidental if anyone’s watching from the windows.
“Peachy,” I lie. “Just thinking about how to phrase ‘Hey Dad, remember how you always wanted me to be more like Emmett? Well, now I’m doing him.’”
Emmett chokes on nothing, shoving my shoulder. “Jesus, Kade. Don’t you dare say anything like that.”
I laugh, the tension cracking. “What? Too direct?”
“Too everything.” He shakes his head, but I catch the upward curl of his lips. Even after a month, making Emmett laugh still feels like winning some kind of prize.
The path seems shorter than usual tonight, the main house looming before us all too quickly. Emmett pauses just before we reach the porch steps, his green eyes finding mine. Something unspoken passes between us—reassurance, solidarity, the promise that whatever happens in there, we face it together.
“Ready?” he asks.
I nod, even though my throat feels like I’ve swallowed sandpaper. “As I’ll ever be.”
The smell of pot roast hits us the moment we step inside—rich, savory, achingly normal. Caroline appears in the hallway, dish towel in hand, her face lighting up the way it always does when she sees her son.
