Harder.
The bed creaked beneath us. Skin slapped skin. Sweat slicked between us.
He hooked one of my legs over his elbow, changing the angle, hitting deeper. I keened, head thrown back.
“Right there—Wyatt, right there?—”
He pounded into that spot relentlessly, finger finding my clit again, rubbing tight circles.
“Come with me,” he growled against my ear, voice raw and wrecked. “Come on my cock, Soph. Let me feel you milk me.”
The command tipped me over.
I came hard—harder than before—clenching around him in tight, pulsing waves, crying his name like it was the only word I remembered. My vision whited out, pleasure crashing through me so violently my whole body shook, nails digging into his shoulders as if I could anchor myself to him forever.
Wyatt followed two thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt, hips stuttering as he spilled inside me with a guttural groan that sounded like my name torn from his soul.
I felt every hot pulse of him, felt him throb and fill me, claiming me in the most primal way possible. His arms locked around me like iron bands, holding me so tight I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but feel him—inside me, around me, everywhere.
We stayed like that for long, trembling seconds. Joined. Spent. Breath ragged against each other’s skin.
And in the quiet that followed, something strange and beautiful settled over me.
It was so surreal—how right this felt.
How impossible and inevitable, all at once.
I’d known this man since we were kids covered in dirt and sunburn, racing bikes down cracked Valentine streets, stealing glances at each other across church pews, laughing until our sides hurt at stupid jokes only we understood. He’d been the boy who taught me how to throw a punch, who carried me home on his back when I sprained my ankle jumping off the dock, who looked at me like I hung the moon even when I was just a gangly thirteen-year-old with braces and too much attitude.
We’d lost each other twice.
But fate, stubborn and relentless, had brought us back.
And now here we were: grown people, bodies scarred and changed, hearts finally brave enough to stop running.
He was still that same kid underneath it all—the one with the crooked grin and the quiet loyalty—but God, he was so much more now.
Harder. Broader. Battle-worn in ways that made my chest hurt with pride and tenderness. The same steady hands that used to braid wildflowers into my hair now gripped my hips like I was the only thing keeping him grounded. The same eyes that used to sparkle with mischief now darkened with something possessive and reverent when they looked at me.
He was mine.
He’d always been mine.
And I was his.
The thought hit me like a warm wave, washing away years of almosts and maybes.
I lifted my head from where it had fallen against his shoulder, pressed my lips to the pulse hammering in his throat, and whispered into his skin, “This feels like coming home.”
Wyatt’s arms tightened around me, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair.
“Been waiting my whole damn life to come home to you,” he murmured, voice thick. He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to my temple, then another to the corner of my eye where a tear had escaped without me realizing. “Never letting you go again, Soph. You’re it for me.”
I smiled against his neck, tears slipping free now—not from pain, but from the sheer relief of finally being exactly where I belonged.
“About damn time, cowboy,” I whispered back.
He huffed a quiet laugh—the sound rumbling through his chest into mine—and rolled us slowly so I was tucked against his side, still joined, his leg thrown over mine like he needed every point of contact.
