It’s all fucking amazing.
For a second, we stare. No jokes, no shields, no bullshit. I never thought I’d let anyone see me like this, but it’sher. My hands are everywhere: gripping her hips, her waist, mapping the scar under her left breast, splaying across her lower back just to make sure she’s still here.
She’s hesitant with a small roll of her hips. But then she bites her lip and lets out this half-laugh, half-groan, and I know she’s into it.
When she starts to move, my dick already pulses.
Dammit.
I follow her lead, matching every shift, every grind, every adjustment. I have to fight the urge to take over, to go all animal because I’ve wanted this for so long, but I can’t. It’s Sydney.
“Brooks,” she says. Solid. Steady.
I want to say something back, but my brain short-circuits. Time to pull her down and kiss her like she’s never been kissed before, hoping she gets it.
She does.
Our bodies take over, finding a rhythm that’s raw and so damn hot.
But she’s still thinking. I see it in her jaw, the way her eyes dart and flicker, searching for something. I want her here, with me, not stuck in her own head.
I reach up and cup her cheek. “Close your eyes. Just feel.” My voice is rough, almost gone.
She lets go, andChrist.
She’s everything: tough and gentle, wild and desperate, and I can only hold on and meet her every move, every gasp, every shudder. Her hands are on my shoulders, then my neck, then tangled in my hair, tugging. I thrust up, and she meets me, hard, and the only thing that exists is the here and now.
I’m supposed to be careful with my shoulder, but fuck that. I use my good arm to hold her, and she braces herself on my chest, nails dragging red lines down my skin. It stings, but I’m here for it. All of it—the pain, the pleasure, the proof that this is real.
It happens like a dam breaking. All that careful exploratory shit is instantly an afterthought. Sydney’s moving above me with this wild, desperate hunger, and I’m meeting her with equal force—hard, fast, greedy. It’s not pretty, it’s not even coordinated; we’re both so far gone in the feeling that we’re tripping over each other’s rhythm, but that just makes the need sharper, the connection more real. Her hands claw at my shoulders, then slide down to my ass, pulling me impossibly deeper into her. The slap of skin-on-skin echoes, a primitive soundtrack to the animal thing we’re doing.
I’ve never wanted anything this much, not even on a breakaway with ten seconds left on the clock. It’s not just the friction or the heat—it’s the fucking certainty, the total lack of shame or fear, the way she looks at me like I’m the only person in the universe, and she’s not going to let me forget it. I’m panting like a fool, sweat slicking my chest and her back, every muscle straining because I want to give her more, enough, everything. She’s got her nails in my flesh, carving a record of every second, and I hope to god it scars. I want to carry this with me forever.
She leans forward, kisses me hard, then pants against my ear, her breath hot and shaky and so close I shiver. “I’m close,” she whispers, not hiding, not embarrassed. “I want to—please—”
“Together,” I grind out, barely able to breathe. I reach between us, fingers finding the spot where we’re joined, pressing just how she likes. She cries out, arching, her whole body shaking, and I have to fight not to lose it right there.
I hold on, not out of pride, but because I want to see her fall apart first. I want to memorize it—the way her eyes screw shut, her muscles lock, her mouth drops open in shock. When she finally comes, the sound she makes isn’t soft or pretty. It’s wild, real, and it hits me harder than any slapshot I’ve ever taken.
My whole body tightens, every muscle bowstring-taut, and then everything inside me just… detonates. I’m exploding, ragged, deep, seismic, my dick pulsing, my heart racing, a burst of euphoria that obliterates every thought. The shutters hit until there’s nothing left but white-hot surrender and the pounding of my pulse in my ears.
I cry out. I don’t mean to, but it rips from me anyway. I don’t even realize I’m holding her so tight until everything calms and my shoulder starts to ache. I’m lightheaded and shaky, and my whole body feels too big for itself, like I’ve just outgrown my own skin. For a long, blurry moment, all I can do is breathe and try to remember how language works.
Sydney collapses on top of me, breathing hard, sweat cooling between us, hair plastered to her face. My arms wrap around her without thinking, one hand cradling her head, the other tracing slow lines down her back.
We don’t talk. I just listen to her heartbeat, frantic and then slowing, her breath even and warm against my chest. My own pulse still races.
I’m the first to break. “Holy shit,” I say, because it’s all I’ve got.
Sydney laughs, body shaking, and I feel like a king. Maybe for the first time ever.
Then she tenses, just a little, the way she always does when something’s eating at her. She rolls off me, pulling the blanket over her chest, and I catch the look on her face: gorgeous, yeah, but wary.
I prop myself up, ignoring the ache in my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, hair falling into her eyes. “Nothing. Just… wondering what we do now.”
I wish I had an answer. I really do. Instead, I’m stuck on the fact that this woman—the impossible, infuriating, perfect woman next to me—chose to be here with me. She crossed a line, dragged me with her, and I want to stay on this side forever.
