My posture changes before I consciously decide to move. The restraint I’d been holding loosens, replaced by intent – clear, grounded, unapologetic. The kiss turns rougher, more demanding, my mouth setting the pace now instead of following hers.
Finally,Donnelly thinks.Stop holding back.
I grip her hip with one hand, the other tangling roughly in her hair so that I can guide her movement without asking, turning her just enough that she has to adjust, has to respond.She does, instantly, body aligning with mine like she’s been waiting for the pressure.
Her breath stutters. Not fear. Recognition.
“That,” she says, voice rougher now. “That’s what I meant.”
Donnelly doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
The room fades at the edges – still there, still contained, but no longer relevant. What matters is weight, resistance, the way she leans into my hold like she trusts it to keep her upright.
I am still present. But I’m no longer steering. Donnelly has the reins now – and Kayla knows it.
Because she relaxes into the grip instead of fighting it, lets the momentum carry her forward, lets herself want without apology. And this time, when I kiss her, I don’t slow it down.
Her fingers tighten, nails biting into my shoulders. Not demanding. Just enough pressure to saystay.
She leans in again, but there’s nothing tentative about it now.
Her mouth finds mine with intent – no testing, no uncertainty – just contact that expects a response. I give her one. I tilt my head and take the kiss properly, deeper, firmer, letting it settle into something that has weight behind it instead of question marks.
She exhales into my mouth, a sound that isn’t soft anymore. It isn’t careful. It’s need, stripped clean of balance and steadiness.
That’s it, Donnelly murmurs.Don’t slow it now.
I don’t.
The kiss warms, sharpens, pulls tight. I adjust my grip and she reacts instantly, body angling into mine like she’s been waiting for permission to do exactly that. Her hand fists in my shirt, knuckles brushing my collarbone as she pulls – not away, but closer, demanding space she already knows I’ll give her.
Her hips shift, pressing forward without apology.
There it is.
The transition isn’t dramatic. It’s final.
I break the kiss just long enough to drag my mouth along her jaw, down the sensitive line beneath her ear. Not teasing. Possessive. My hand slides from her waist to her lower back, firm and guiding, keeping her exactly where I want her – upright, contained, mine to direct.
She shudders. Not from surprise. From anticipation finally being answered.
“Ghost,” she says again, breath rough now. Certain.
I lift my head and look at her – really look at her. Dark eyes. Flushed skin. No hesitation left anywhere in her posture.
“Not Ghost, pet.”
Her lips part. “Donnelly?”
I grin. Her answering smile is slow, knowing. She’s not asking anymore.
She steps back and peels the hoodie over her head, unhurried, deliberate, exposing skin still warm from my hands. She doesn’t cover herself. She lets me look.
Good,Donnelly says.Now we stop pretending.
I take her mouth again, harder this time, setting the pace without apology. My grip tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make the promise unmistakable. She melts into it immediately, trusting the pressure, trusting me to hold her exactly where she needs to be.
Her nails bite into my shoulders. That silent plea to stay again.
