Zora
I swear I won’t call him.I swear I’ll keep my distance, keep my walls up, keep my head clear.But two nights after he leaves my kitchen with that low promise still hanging in the air—“Think about it, because I am”—I crack.
Not because of loneliness.Not because of weakness.But because I can’t stop remembering the way his body had caged mine, the heat rolling off him, the way my whole soul leaned toward him even as my mind screamed danger.
And because I am so damn tired of pretending I don’t want him.
So, when Ivy falls asleep early after a long day at school, I find myself standing in my doorway, phone in hand, texting him two words I never thought I’d send again.
Me:Come over.
He arrives in less than fifteen minutes.When I open the door, he fills the frame, rough and brooding, hair mussed like he was pacing before I texted.His eyes lock on mine, burning, and I know I’ve made a mistake.Not because I don’t want him.But because I want him too much.
“Are you sure?”he asks, his voice low, gravel rough.
I should hesitate.I should think about the risks, the history, the fragile balance we are trying to build.But I don’t.
Instead, I step aside.“Yes.”
The second the door clicks shut, he is on me.His mouth crashed against mine, hot and hungry, his hands gripping my hips like he can’t stand an inch of space between us.And I don’t push him away.I pull him closer.
The sound he makes, half groan, half growl, sends shivers straight through me.I tangle my fingers in his hair, drag him closer, parting my lips for him, and allowing myself to taste him like I’d been starving for years.
His tongue slides against mine, rough and demanding, and my knees nearly buckle.He catches me, hauling me against his chest, his heartbeat thundering hard and fast.
“Zora,” he rasps against my lips, his hand sliding beneath the hem of my shirt, fingertips burning against bare skin.“You drive me insane.”
“Please,” I whisper, arching into his touch.
Something snaps in him at that single word.He lifts me, carrying me back until my spine hits the hallway wall.His mouth trails hot down my throat, teeth grazing, sucking, leaving fire in his wake.
I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, every nerve screaming yes, yes, yes.For once, I don’t care about tomorrow.I don’t care about fear.I only care about the way he makes me feel alive.
Our clothes stay on, but his hands roam, rough palms exploring, mapping me like he’s been deprived of touch for years.My own fingers trace the ink across his arms and his neck, learning him again, memorizing the man he’s become.
Every kiss deepens, every touch bolder, until there is nothing left between us but raw need.When his hips press hard against mine, I moan, the sound muffled against his shoulder.Heat floods me, sharp and aching, and I don’t care that it is reckless.
I don’t care about anything but him.
“Maverick...”My voice breaks, pleading without meaning to.
His forehead drops to mine, his breath ragged.“Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding, my body trembling on the edge.But I don’t tell him to stop.Instead, I kiss him again, pouring all the years of love and longing and anger into that one act, telling him without words.I want this.I want you.
And for the first time, I stop pulling away.
When he finally tears himself back, both of us wrecked and breathless, his hand cradles my face, thumb stroking over my cheek like I am something fragile.
“Zora,” he says hoarsely.“This isn’t just about sex.You know that, right?”
I swallow hard, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.“I know.”
And for once, instead of running, I let myself believe it.
