But each dodge felt like another brick in the wall I was building between us, another lie by omission, another small betrayal of the trust she'd given me tonight when she'd whispered "I love you" like it was the easiest truth she'd ever told.
"What's the one place you've always wanted to see?" I asked, my hand sliding down her side, tracing the curve of her hip, trying to steer us back to safe ground, to territory that didn't require me to reveal how fucked my life actually was.
She hummed, thinking, her fingers playing with the short hair at the nape of my neck in that absent way that made warmth bloom in my chest. "Paris, maybe. Or Tuscany. Somewhere old and romantic where time feels different. Where you can just ... exist without the weight of everything pressing down."
I kissed her shoulder, tasting salt and her. "We should go."
Her eyes flicked to mine, surprised and pleased and so full of hope it made my chest hurt, made breathing difficult. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I meant it. In that moment, lying naked with her in a bed that cost more than my monthly salary, I meant it with everything I had, even though I had no idea how to make it happen, how to build a future when I couldn't even figure out the present. "Someday."
"Someday," she echoed, smiling softly, believing me because she had no reason not to yet.
But someday felt fragile in my mouth. Like a promise I might not keep. Like a future I didn't deserve to imagine with her. Like another lie I was telling us both because the truth—that I was probably going to disappear the moment things got complicated—was too ugly to say out loud.
"Kiss me," she whispered.
I did.
Slow at first. Soft. My lips brushing hers like I had all the time in the world, like tomorrow didn't exist and never would. She sighed into my mouth, her hands sliding up my back, nails dragging lightly, sending sparks down my spine.
I deepened it gradually, my tongue sweeping past her lips, tasting wine and chocolate and Sophie. She moaned softly, arching under me, her breasts pressing against my chest, nipples hard points that made me groan in response.
I wanted her again. Needed her. The first time had been desperate, consuming—a release of years of pent-up want. This time ... this time I wanted to savor. To take her apart slowly,piece by piece, until she was begging, until she forgot her own name, until the only thing left was us and this and the way I could make her feel.
I broke the kiss, trailing my mouth down her neck, nipping at her pulse point hard enough to make her gasp, to make her hips buck against mine.
My cock was already hard, aching, pressed against her thigh, but I ignored it. Focused on her. On the way her skin flushed under my lips, the way her breath came faster when I sucked a mark into the curve of her shoulder, claiming her in a way that felt permanent, possessive, mine.
"Wyatt ..." Her voice was breathy, needy, and it went straight to my dick, making me throb against her.
I moved lower, kissing the swell of her breast, circling her nipple with my tongue before sucking it into my mouth. She whimpered, her hands fisting in my hair, holding me there. I lavished attention on one, then the other, alternating between soft licks and hard suction until she was writhing under me, her breath coming in short gasps.
"Wyatt ... please ..."
I smiled against her skin. "Patience, babe."
She growled—actually growled—and tugged my hair hard enough to sting. "I don't want patience."
I laughed, low and rough, and slid lower still, settling between her thighs. She was already wet, glistening, her arousal coating her inner thighs. The sight of it—the evidence of how much she wanted me—made my cock throb painfully.
"Fuck, Soph," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "You're dripping for me."
She blushed, but didn't look away. "Your fault."
"Damn right." I licked a slow path up her thigh, tasting her salt and sweetness, stopping just short of where she wanted me. "And I'm going to clean up my mess."
Her breath hitched. "Wyatt?—"
I didn't let her finish. I spread her open with my thumbs and dove in, my tongue flat and broad as I licked her from entrance to clit in one long, slow stroke. She cried out, hips bucking, and I pinned her down with one arm across her hips, holding her steady.
I ate her like I’d been born for it. Licking. Sucking. Circling her clit with the tip of my tongue until she was trembling, her thighs clamping around my head. I slid two fingers inside her, curling them to hit that spot that made her back arch, made her moan my name like a curse and a prayer.
She was soaking—wet enough that every thrust of my fingers made obscene sounds, slick and filthy and hot as hell. I added a third finger, stretching her, feeling her clench around me, her arousal coating my hand, dripping down my wrist.
"God, Wyatt—yes—don't stop?—"
I hummed against her clit, the vibration making her shudder, and doubled down—fingers pumping faster, tongue working her relentlessly, sucking her clit into my mouth and flicking it until she was sobbing, her hands fisting the sheets, her body taut as a bowstring.
