“Yours,” I say, following him.
The click of him sliding the lock closed sounds louder than it should, like it seals us off from the rest of the world. The space feels different somehow.
As he turns to face me, a question is already forming in his eyes.
But I don't want him to say anything. If he does, I'll lose my nerve, and I've already spent too many nights wondering what this would feel like. Wondering if the tension between us is as unbearable for him as it is for me. The girls' encouragement, the realization that I've been thinking about him as a possibility, the way my heart jumped when I saw him in the hallway—it all churns in my chest.
And I realize I'm done pretending.
I close the distance and kiss him, sure this time, greedy for the taste of him, my hands fisting in his shirt like I'm afraid he might vanish if I don't hold on.
He reacts instantly, like I've touched a match to something inside him. His arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against him, and the rough sound he makes hits me low in my stomach.
“I want to stop pretending I don't want you,” I whisper against his mouth as my forehead brushes his. “I'm so tired of pretending.”
His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes, like he's making sure I mean it. “Are you sure? Because, once we cross this line, I don't think I can go back to just being your friend.”
“I don't want to go back.”
That's all the permission he needs. He surges forward, and his mouth crashes onto mine with a hunger that pulls the breath from my lungs. His hands slide into my hair, his fingers curling tight as if he can't stand the thought of me pulling away. The kiss is deep and consuming, and his tongue teases mine until my knees threaten to give out.
“God, Stella,” he groans against my lips. “You taste so fucking good. So sweet and warm.” His nose brushes mine as his mouth moves to my cheek, then lower to my jaw. “I can't stop thinking about you. About the way you felt pressed against me that night—your body rubbing against mine, soft and perfect, like you were made to fit there.”
He drags his lips along my throat, inhaling deeply, like he's memorizing me. “Your skin…” His lips trail over my jaw, my ear. “Your mouth, your lips. I've been dying to have them on me again.” His mouth claims mine again, harder this time.
His admission sends electricity through my entire body. I reach for the hem of his shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine, and gently peel it up over his head, careful with his shoulder. My hands explore the planes of his chest, the muscles that flex under my touch, the way his breathing hitches when my fingers trace the line of his collarbone.
“You're so beautiful,” I murmur, and he makes a sound like I've undone him completely.
His hands find the zipper of my dress, and he pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want this, Brandon. I want you.”
The zipper slides down slowly, deliberately, and a shiver races over my skin as the fabric falls away. For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. His gaze roams over me, almost worshipful, but there's heat there, too, a hunger that makes me feel unsteady.
“You're perfect,” he says, his voice rough and certain, like he's stating a fact. “Absolutely perfect.”
I should laugh it off, make some self-deprecating joke the way I always do when someone gets too close, but I can't. Not with the way he's looking at me. His eyes capture mine, and they tell me everything I've been hoping to know: that he's been waiting for this, not for days or weeks, but maybe longer, maybe his whole life.
He lifts me easily. My legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and the press of his body against mine steals my breath. God, he's hard. The contact is dizzying, electric, sending a pulse of heat straight between my thighs. I've been kissed before, touched before, even slept with men before, but nothing has ever felt like this.
He carries me to the bedroom and sets me down on his bed. His hands are sure but tender, mapping the slope of my shoulders, the curve of my waist, and the delicate skin below my ear. I gasp, arching toward him before I can stop myself.
“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs as his lips brush my throat. “Tell me what you want.”
I hesitate, my cheeks warming. “I don't know. I've never… With the other guys, it was never?—”
“Never what, baby?”
I swallow, and the words barely make it past my lips. “Never where I felt like I might come apart just from being touched.”
Something flickers in his eyes, heat layered over a kind of determination that makes my pulse spike. He bends to that spot under my ear again, and his teeth graze my skin just enough to make me whimper. “We're going to figure out exactly what you like,” he promises, and the confidence in his voice curls low in my stomach. “And I'm going to make you come apart so many times you lose count.”
The boldness of it should make me blush. Instead, it sends a flood of heat through me so intense I have to bite back a moan. Maybe I should be embarrassed by how little I know, how little I've experienced, but with him, I'm not.
His experience doesn't intimidate me. In fact, it feels like an anchor, something steady I can trust. He's confident and deliberate, like making me feel good is the only thing on his mind. And with every touch, I let go of the need to overthink or to perform. I just want to feel.
When his fingers move to the clasp of my bra, I don't hesitate. I want his hands on me. I want to know what it's like to be wanted like this. The straps slide from my shoulders, the last barrier falling away, and his breath catches.
