When we’re clean and rinsed, she gives me this look—half invitation, half challenge—and turns.
She doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t need to.
She walks out of the shower and heads toward the bed like she already knows I’ll follow.
And damn right, I do.
Because wherever she goes?
I’m going too.
I’m already so fucking hard for her.
It’s not something I can hide—and I don’t want to.
But Willow? She’s not running from it.
She’s not making me feel anything but good about how I want her.
She eyes my cock and licks her lips before pushing me down on the mattress.
I go willingly, holding my breath as she kisses and licks her way down my chest to my navel—and lower.
The first sensation of her mouth around me is like heaven.
She’s hot and warm and wet, and I can’t get enough.
But I want her with me.
Need to be inside her—not just her mouth—so I pull her up gently, and she lets me. She straddles my hips and lifts herself up before coming back down, taking me deep.
We both groan.
Her body rocks into mine with each thrust.
She meets me beat for beat, heart for heart—like we’re writing something ancient in the dark.
And when she shatters above me—soft cries, nails digging into my shoulders—it feels like the stars realign.
Like I finally understand what I was made for.
Her.
Only her.
I follow her over the edge with a groan torn from somewhere deep inside me—the kind of sound a man makes when he’s just lost himself in the only thing that’s ever truly mattered.
And afterward, when she’s trembling in my arms, her breath hot against my chest, I hold her like a vow.
Like I never want to let go.
Because that is the truth.
Sometime later, the room’s gone quiet, the moonlight is throwing lazy shadows on the far wall.
Willow’s curled into me—her cheek pressed against my chest, her leg hooked over mine.
