“Yeah.” I reach out, trace the line of his jaw with my thumb. “I want the label of boyfriend. I want the future. I want lazy Sundays and fights over who controls the remote and holidays where I drag you to my very religious families get-togethers, and we can both hate it together while they think they can change a damn thing about our love. I want all the stupid, domestic shit we never got to have before. And I want it with you.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” I lean in, kiss him once—soft, quick—then pull back. “Your turn.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I want forever. I want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep holding you every night. I want to build something real—no secrets, no shame, no running. I want to be the man who deserves you, and I want to spend the rest of my life proving I can be.”
My chest aches in the best way.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Then we’re doing this. Boyfriends. Partners. Whatever you want to call it. But we talk. We don’t disappear. We don’t hide. Deal?”
“Deal.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, thumb stroking my pulse. “I love you, Luke.”
“I love you too.” I grin against his mouth. “Now shut up and kiss me like you mean it.”
He does—harder this time, hungrier. I climb into his lap without breaking the kiss, straddling him, hands fisting in his shirt. His palms slide under my Henley, warm against my back, then lower, cupping my ass through my jeans.
When I grind down, he groans, fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise in the best way.
“Bedroom,” he rasps, voice already fraying.
I pull back just enough to smirk down at him. “Bossy.”
“Brat.”
I slide off his lap, stand between his spread knees, and hold out my hand. He takes it, lets me tug him up—but instead of leading him anywhere, I push him right back down onto the couch, hard enough that the cushions bounce.
“Sit,” I say, voice sweet and taunting.
He obeys instantly—eyes dark, pupils blown, chest rising and falling too fast. Hungry. Feral already.
I step back one pace, just out of reach, and start the show.
Henley first—slow peel over my head, letting the fabric drag across my skin before it drops to the floor. Then the jeans: button, zipper, shimmying the denim down my hips, inch by inch. When they pool at my ankles, I step out, kicking them aside with a casual flick.
I’m left in nothing but the red lace thong I chose specifically toruin him.
Silas goes completely still.
His gaze drops and locks—thin red straps cutting across my hips, delicate lace barely containing me, the front already damp and straining. His breath catches—loud, ragged, almost a growl.
“Fuck,” he whispers, the word cracking in half.
I turn slowly, giving him the back view—the lace disappearing between my cheeks, the thin straps framing everything perfectly.
“Like what you see, Daddy?” I ask, voice sugar-sweet and deliberately cruel.
He makes a low, animal sound in his throat—half growl, half plea.
“Get over here,” he says, voice gone to gravel.
I saunter closer, stopping just out of reach.
“Say please.”
His hands flex on his thighs as though he’s physically fighting the urge to grab me.
