So I step forward.
No hesitation. No second-guessing. I eliminate the distance until we’re standing toe to toe, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, close enough that the air between us changes. He’s taller, broad enough that he blocks out part of the room without trying, but I don’t shrink from it. I tip my head back and meet his gaze.
His eyes are green—clear, steady, watchful. The kind that miss nothing. A lock of dark blond hair has fallen loose across his forehead, softening a face that knows how to go hard when it needs to. Justin Collins looks like the kind of man people expect good things from.
And right now, he’s standing completely still—every inch of him under control, like holding himself back is a conscious choice he’s making for me.
I can see the restraint in his jaw, in the way his hands hang at his sides instead of reaching for me. He’s waiting. Giving me room. Letting this moment be mine.
That alone makes my throat tighten.
I lift my hand before I can talk myself out of it and rest it against his chest. Solid. Warm. Real. His breath changes immediately, like he’s bracing himself without stepping away.
“I want this,” I say quietly. Confidently.
Not because I need permission. Because I need him to know I’m choosing it.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts again, searching my face for cracks, for doubt, for anything that looks like fear. Whatever he sees must be enough, because his hand comes up slowly, stopping just short of my waist. He waits again. Always waiting.
I close the last inch myself.
My fingers curl into his shirt. I feel the tension ripple through him when I lean in, when my forehead brushes his, when our breaths mingle. There’s no rush. No collision. Just heat building where our bodies line up, undeniable and deliberate.
When his hand finally settles at my hip, it’s careful. Claiming. Like he’s grounding me instead of pulling me closer.
I tilt my mouth toward his.
Not a demand or a plea. An invitation. And when his lips meet mine, it’s slow and restrained and devastating in its gentleness, like he’s proving something without saying a word, and he understands exactly how much it means that I came to him on my own.
Our mouths collide,heat building fast. For all his restraint, the moment Justin gives in it’s like something breaking loose—he crowds me back until my shoulders hit the wall, his body boxing me in without crushing me.
His breath is hot against my skin as his mouth trails downmy neck, slow and easy, like he’s taking his time on purpose. His hands slide to the small of my back and pull me closer, closing the last bit of space between us. I’m pressed against him fully now, aware of every hard line of his body, aware of how badly he wants this. It should make me hesitate. Instead, it sends heat straight through me, sharp and undeniable.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. I don’t bother being careful. I tear it open and shove it off his shoulders, letting it fall wherever it lands. My hands skim over his chest, warm skin and firm muscle under my palms, and when my nails trace lightly down his forearms, he lets out a low sound that goes straight through me.
His hands drop to his belt. He unbuckles it and leaves it loose, then reaches for the hem of my nightshirt and pulls it up and over my head in one smooth motion. I’m left in nothing but a sports bra and panties, bare and exposed, but the way his mouth tightens—like he’s holding himself back—tells me I have nothing to be embarrassed about.
“I won’t be able to stop once I start, Rowan,” he whispers, his mouth brushing mine again, his breath rough now.
“Who’s telling you to stop?”
That’s all it takes.
He shoves his pants down and steps out of them, then backs me toward the bed, his mouth never leaving my skin. His lips trail slow, deliberate kisses along my throat, unhurried and intentional. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, we go down together in a messy tangle of limbs and breath.
Justin doesn’t hesitate. He wants, and he takes. He pulls my bra off in a flourish, before his mouth travels down the narrow line between my breasts. He lifts his head and closes his mouth around one nipple. His tongue circles the sensitive peak while his hand cups the other, thumb and forefinger pinching just enough to make my breath catch.
When his hand settles at my hip and his fingers brush the edge of my panties, he finds them wet with my arousal. His breath leaves him in a low groan that vibrates straight through me before he hooks his fingers into the fabric and eases it away.
He leans in, mouth warm against my skin, his tongue flicking out to taste me. He traces slow, knowing paths along my folds, learning me, drawing a sharp breath from my chest as his tongue becomes more certain. When his mouth finally finds my clit and closes around it in small, luxurious sucks, it’s with purpose—steady, unrelenting—until my thoughts scatter and all I can do is grind against his mouth. He slips a finger inside me, then another, pumping them in and out, causing me to tremble around them.
I’m on the cusp of coming when he pulls back, and retrieves a condom from his discarded wallet. He positions himself between my legs and lines up his cock with my pussy. He nudges my entrance, teasing me as I stand on the edge of my impending orgasm, before he asks me if I’m ready for him.
Baby, I’m more than ready,I want to tell him. But words escape me and all I can do is nod.
He pushes into me slowly, nudging his cock inch by inch, breaching the tightness, until he’s seated deep inside me.
“So fucking tight,” he hisses.
