And this time, he isn’t gentle. He crushes his mouth to mine as his grip tightens on my neck, yanking my body flush, removing any space that existed between us, my surrender complete as I wrap my arms around him.
More quickly than I like, he pulls away, his hand skimming down my arm until his fingers link with mine. “Let’s find the bedroom.”
“Yes, please.” I nod, biting back a smile of relief as he leads me up a set of stairs, snagging the duffel as he goes. I’m a strange mix of feelings as I follow behind him. This isn’t our first time, yet it feels entirely like it is. Our first time was heat and lust and curiosity. This time carries a promise between us to open our hearts to more.
We enter the bedroom and he drops the bag to the ground, his body turning to face me. “Do you need anything?”
I shake my head, my only focus on him, my heart pounding against its cage as if desperate to escape. “Just you.”
“I’m yours.” He steps forward, and with a tenderness I had yet to experience with him, he slides his fingers around the nape of my neck, tilting my head back to feather kisses on my forehead, my cheeks, the tip of my nose, before finally sealing his mouth over mine.
Our bodies surge together like two magnets clicking into place, everything finally righting itself into perfect alignment. His lips move against mine unhurriedly, like he has nowhere else to be and no reason to rush.
Every kiss is deliberate, a searing declaration of his decision. His thumbs brush along my jaw, anchoring me there, as if he’s memorizing the shape of me in this moment. I feel it everywhere, his restraint, his care and the way this isn’t about hunger, but about choice.
When he pulls back, just barely, his forehead rests against mine. His breathing is uneven, mine worse, and the space between us feels electric even though we’re touching everywhere. His hands slide from my neck to my shoulders, down my arms, as if asking permission with every inch of skin he claims.
“Come here,” he murmurs, not a command, but an invitation.
He guides me back toward the bed, never breaking eye contact. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, he follows me down slowly, reverently, like this is something sacred. Like I am. He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I feel the quiet promise in it that he’s showing; I’m here. I’m staying.
His hands begin to undress me with care, not urgency. Fabric slides away inch by inch, every touch intentional, every pause loaded with meaning. When his lips trace my collarbone, my shoulder, the place beneath my ear, I swear my heart could split open from how seen I feel.
He leans back just enough to look at me, really look at me, his gaze dark and steady and full of something that finally feels like home. I reach for him then, my hands trembling just enough that he notices.
His breath catches as my fingers skim the hem of his shirt, hesitating until he nods slowly. I pull it over his head, taking my time, letting my palms map the lines of his torso as if learning a language I never want to forget.
When my hands move to the buttons of his jeans, he stills, watching me with an intensity that makes my chest ache. This time, I’m the one undressing him, not out of urgency, but reverence. Every touch is a quiet promise that I see him, that I choose him too, that this moment belongs to us both.
When my fingers free the last button, his forehead drops to mine, a shaky laugh slipping out like he doesn’t quite trust himself yet.
“God,” he murmurs, voice rough, undone. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I look up, and something in his expression shifts wide open that is unguarded.
“I spent a long time convincing myself I didn’t need this,” he admits on a whisper. “Didn’t deserve it.” His thumb brushes under my chin, lifting my gaze back to his. “But with you, I don’t want to be that man anymore. I want to feel this. I choose you.”
The words land heavy and sure, like a vow spoken in a whisper. Like a door closing on the past he’s been hiding from for a decade.
And when he reaches for me again, it’s not lust that fills the room, it’s love. His mouth finds mine like a secret he’s been holding onto for years, slow and careful, as if he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he moves too fast. The first brush of his lips is barely there, before he pulls back a fraction, breathing me in, letting the anticipation stretch until it aches.
When he kisses me again, it’s deeper, softer, unhurried, his lips coaxing instead of taking, teaching my body the rhythm of patience. Time seems to dissolve as he tilts his head, fitting us together with aching precision, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw like he’s memorizing it.
Every kiss lingers longer than the last, a slow unraveling, desire blooming not from urgency but from restraint. When his mouth finally teases to open mine, it’s reverent, consuming in its gentleness, like he’s pouring every unspoken feeling into that single, endless kiss.
Heat radiates from every inch of my skin, need pulsing at my center. He lowers himself between my legs and drags his tongue between my folds, his feral growl vibrating against them. “You taste so fucking good.”
My fingers tangle in his hair as he dives deeper, flicking at my clit, then sucking it into his mouth, my back arching off the bed as I detonate unexpectedly, his name tumbling from me in a shout.
His face is in front of mine a second later, his mouth wet with my scent. “You screaming my name is the best thing I’ve ever fucking heard.”
Before I even have a chance to respond, his lips crush against mine, his body resting between my spread legs. His breaks the kiss to line the tip of his length up with my opening, his gaze locking with mine as the head of his cock slides inside me.
He eases into me, one slow torturous inch at a time, a small gasp of relief when he’s finally, finally, buried all the way in me. He’s completely still, his eyes never leaving mine, his voice raspy as he brings his lips to mine to murmur against them. “You are so fucking beautiful.”
And then any semblance of tenderness is gone as he rears his hips back and begins to thrust in and out of me. Every surge is deeper than the last, made all the more intense by the fact he hasn’t broken eye contact with me. My fingers dig into the muscles of his back, my nails breaking his skin as I cling to him, needing to remove any molecule of space between our bodies.
I forget where I end and he begins as I feel myself climb toward another orgasm, sparks igniting behind my lids when I combust, my entire body convulsing under him. His release is only a second after mine, his cock pulsing deep inside of me as he wraps me even tighter in his arms until all that exists is the warmth of his mouth and the quiet, devastating truth that this, this is everything.
