"I am." He pulled me closer, looking down at me with that intensity in his eyes that told me he was falling too. "God help me, I am."
"Then stop running." I cupped his face in my hands. "Stay. Fight for this. Fight for us."
His arms wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest so tight I could barely breathe. But I didn’t care about breathing right now. I just wanted this—his heart pounding against mine, his warmth surrounding me, the wall between us finally, finally coming down.
"I'm sorry," he murmured against my hair. "I'm so sorry. The things I said?—"
"I know. I know you didn't mean them."
"I was trying to make you hate me."
"It didn't work."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, and what I saw in his eyes made my heart stutter. Love. Naked, unguarded love, with nothing held back.
"I don't deserve you," he said.
"Let me decide what you deserve."
He kissed me. It wasn't desperate this time, or frantic. It was slow and deep and thorough, like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. His hands slid into my hair, cradling my head, and I melted into him.
We made our way to the bedroom without breaking the kiss, a slow, stumbling dance of mouths and hands. My shirt came off first—his fingers catching the hem and lifting it over myhead in one smooth motion—then his flannel, buttons popping open under my impatient fingers. Jeans followed, kicked aside somewhere near the doorway. By the time the backs of my knees hit the mattress, we were both bare, skin flushed and breathing uneven.
He eased me down onto the cool sheets with careful hands, like I might fracture if he moved too quickly. Then he followed, covering me with the solid heat of his body, forearms braced on either side of my head. Our eyes locked, and I felt safer than I ever have. No more walls. No more pretending this was anything less than everything.
His mouth found mine again—slower now, deeper—while one hand mapped the curve of my waist, the dip of my hip, the sensitive skin along my inner thigh. When his fingers finally slipped between my legs, I gasped into his kiss. He was already hard against my stomach, thick and insistent, but he didn’t rush. Instead, he circled my clit with slow, deliberate strokes, learning me all over again, watching every flicker across my face.
“Emory,” he whispered, voice rough but almost reverent. “Look at me.”
I did. I couldn’t look away. His hazel eyes held mine, dark and unguarded. There was no smirk, no teasing—just raw need and something softer. Something that felt dangerously close to worship.
He shifted his hips, notched himself at my entrance, and paused. The blunt head of him pressed just inside, stretching that first delicate ring of muscle. My breath hitched. He waited, thumb still moving in lazy, perfect circles over my clit, keeping me suspended in that shimmering edge of sensation.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.
“It’s not.” My voice came out shaky. “I want all of you.”
He exhaled—a low, ragged sound—and pushed forward in one long, controlled glide. The stretch was exquisite, almost toofull, every inch of him pressing against every sensitive place inside me until he was seated completely, hips flush to mine. I felt the throb of his pulse where we were joined, felt the way my body fluttered around him, trying to adjust.
For a long moment we simply stayed like that—locked together, breathing each other’s air. Finally, he spoke.
“God, you feel…” He swallowed hard, words dissolving into a quiet groan.
Then he began to move.
Slow. So slow. Deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every nerve ending, pulling soft whimpers from my throat. His thumb never left my clit—steady pressure, tight little circles that matched the rhythm of his hips. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in my core, bright and liquid, until it felt like I might shatter from the inside out.
I kept my eyes on his as long as I could. Watched the way his brows drew together, the way his lips parted on every exhale, the way color climbed high on his cheekbones. He never looked away either. Not once. Even as his breathing turned ragged, even as sweat beaded along his hairline and his thrusts grew fractionally harder, deeper—he held my gaze like it was the only thing anchoring him.
Sounds filled the room—the slick glide of our bodies, the soft creak of the bed frame, my own breathless moans, his low, guttural groans every time I clenched around him. My name fell from his lips again and again—Emory, Emory—like a litany, like something sacred.
The pressure built unbearably. My thighs trembled. My fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin.
“Kai—” His name came out half sob, half plea.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
One more precise stroke over my clit, one more deep thrust that hit exactly right—and I broke. The orgasm crashed throughme in blinding waves, inner walls pulsing hard around him, pulling him deeper. My eyes squeezed shut. I couldn’t keep them open anymore. The pleasure was too much, too bright, drowning every thought until there was only sensation—heat, fullness, the electric snap of release.
