Vicente couldn’t. Because Vicente was always the one on his knees, face in the pillows, chasing whatever ghost he needed to outrun that night.
I groan as the stretch burns, and my eyes squeeze shut.
“Eyes on me,” he says.
I force them open. He’s right there. Face flushed, breathing hard, eyes soft with something that shouldn’t be tenderness, not now. Not with how raw I am. But it is.
And it breaks me.
He bottoms out, hips flush to mine, cock buried inside me. The ache is sharp, but not unkind. I’ve taken worse. But never like this.
Never while being seen.
I lurch up and grip the back of his neck, haul him down into a brutal kiss.
He braces one hand beside my head as we kiss, then remains close as he starts to move—long, measured thrusts that drag against every nerve. My cock rubs against his abs with each motion, leaking steadily. His rhythm deepens, pace building, hips slapping against my ass as he fucks me with purpose.
The entire time, our eyes remain locked, our noses nearly touching, and my heart is lodged in my throat. Because never in my life have I been so laid bare and so seen.
I moan. Loud. Unfiltered.
He grits his teeth. “Touch yourself.”
I do. I wrap my hand around my cock and stroke fast, matching his pace.
“Tell me what you need,” he says, voice rough.
“To come,” I rasp.
“Then come for me.”
His hips snap hard. Once. Twice. He hits that spot again and I explode.
Pleasure rips through me, white-hot and blinding, my come striping my chest in thick ropes. I clench around him, and with a low groan, he follows—buries deep and jerks as he empties himself inside the condom.
We freeze, both shaking. Him with exertion, me with the aftershocks of the seismic shift he caused in my psyche.
When he finally pulls out, he’s gentle. Moves like a man afraid of waking the past. He slips away, comes back with a warm cloth, and wipes me clean with the kind of care that shouldn’t be erotic but is. Because it’s intimate. Because it says: You’re worth tending to.
He lies back down beside me, quiet. Fingers brushing along my ribs, lips along my shoulder—like he’s trying to remind me that I’m still here.
That I made it back.
Eventually, his breathing slows. Deepens. His hand goes still on my chest.
Wyatt sleeps.
I don’t.
I stay there for a while, watching the ceiling, letting his warmth seep into the parts of me still cold. And when I can breathe again, I ease out of bed.
Dress quietly.
Pull the takeout inside.
Slip out the door without a sound. Leaving no note. No goodbye. Only the ghost of his breath still clinging to my skin, and the part of me I left behind.
7
