He inhales deeply, as if trying to capture the sound in his memory. Each touch is weighted with meaning, with years of separation and longing.
His palm skims my ribs, and memories flood back, all the times we'd been together before, when we were young and believed love was enough.
Between kisses, my voice breaks loose, ragged and low. “I want you inside of me. Now.”
My words are desperate, stripped bare, and for once, I don’t care how they sound.
He groans as his breath comes out hard. “Lane. I want that too. But not fast. Not like we’re stealing it. I want to take my time with you this time, every inch, every sound you make.”
Heat floods through me at the promise in his tone. My hands fist his shirt, dragging it over his head. “Then show me,” I whisper as I wash my hands over his defined abs.
“Oh, I'll show you.” His mouth claims mine again, rough and hungry, then softens into something deeper. His palms slide under my thighs, lifting me higher on the bed, and my knees fall open around him.
His hands roam over my hips, my ribs, up to my breasts. He bends, his lips closing over one nipple through my bra, sucking just enough to make me gasp. Then his teeth scrape lightly, his voice a growl against my skin. “Seven years, Lane. You're more beautiful now than you ever were.”
I pull at him, desperate to have him closer, frantic to feel him inside me, but he stops me. His fingers toy with the waistband of my leggings, inchingthem down, dragging slowly over my hips and thighs. “I’m going to take you apart piece by piece.”
His palm trails down over my hip, skimming my outer thigh, then slips between my legs to tug my panties aside.
The first stroke of his fingers makes me arch, a gasp torn from my throat. He watches me, his gaze dark and unflinching, like he’s cataloging every reaction.
“You're so tight,” he murmurs, slipping a finger inside, curling it just right. My hips jerk. He adds another, his thumb circling lazily over my clit. “Yeah, Lane. You’re soaked for me already.”
“Woody…” My voice cracks, need thrumming through me.
“You want my mouth, don’t you?” he asks, wicked and low. Before I can answer, he’s moving lower, pulling my panties with him, spreading my thighs wide. The first sweep of his tongue makes me cry out as my fingers tangle in the sheets.
Seven years vanish in an instant. It’s like no time has passed. We instinctively know the rhythm of each other's bodies, the sweet spots.
He takes me right to the brink, my body bowing, my breath breaking, then pulls back, leaving me trembling and empty.
“Not yet,” he rasps, crawling back up to kiss me, his lips slick with me. “I want to be inside you when you fall apart.”
He grabs his cock and nudges at my entrance, pushing in slowly, inch by inch, until I’m gasping his name.
“Jesus Christ, Lane,” he groans, forehead against mine, his thrusts steady, unhurried. “It’s always been you. Always.”
My legs lock around his hips, pulling him closer. My nails dig into his back, dragging down his skin. The worldoutside this room disappears. There's no past, no future, just this slow, relentless claiming that I never wanted to admit I missed.
It's deeper than before, not just physically but emotionally.
"God, I've missed you," he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough as he continues to pump into me. "I still love you. Never stopped."
I cry out as he pushes deeper, the stretch and fullness tipping me right to the edge. “I love you, Woody,” I gasp, the words slipping free before I can stop them.
His breath shudders out hot against my ear. “Say it again.” His thrusts grow harder, faster, his hand finding mine and pinning it above my head.
“Woody—” My voice breaks as the rhythm builds, sharp and relentless. The headboard thuds against the wall in time with my pulse, every movement winding me tighter, until I can’t think, can’t breathe.
"I love you. I've always loved you. Oh… Yes!"
It hits like lightning. My whole body clenches around him as my cry tears through the room. He groans my name, hips driving once, twice, before he buries himself deep and falls apart with me.
For a long moment, we cling, trembling, the air heavy with the sounds of our release. Then his weight sinks onto me, his chest slick against mine, his heartbeat pounding wild and uneven beneath my cheek.
The car rollsthrough Durham's winter morning, sunlight catching on patches of frost. Woody drives, Sanders bounces in the backseat, and I watch the university campus buildings slidepast my window.
None of us talk much. What could we say that wouldn't feel small against what's happening today?
