“Yeah,” I breathe, “you already knew that.”
She laughs once, breathless, and it breaks into a gasp when I set her on the bed and follow her down, my mouth finding hers again. Her hands go to my face like she’s holding on. Like she’s making sure I’m real.
“Tell me what you want,” I murmur against her lips.
She stares up at me for half a second — guarded, defiant, always — then her chin lifts.
“I want you to stop thinking,” she says.
“Okay.”
“And I want you to…” She cuts herself off, cheeks flushing as if she hates needing words. “Just… don’t make me be the brave one every time.”
Something hot and protective surges through me so hard it’s almost pain.
“I’ve got you,” I say, and it comes out like a vow.
Her eyes flicker. “Don’t say things like that.”
“I mean it.”
She swallows, and for a second the room is too quiet — only our breathing, the soft rustle of sheets, the hum of the world outside her apartment. Then she reaches for me again, impatient now, pulling me down like she’s done running.
So I give in.
Completely.
I kiss her until she’s shaking and clinging, until her mouth softens from anger into need. I map every inch of her with my hands like I’m learning a language I should’ve known years ago. Her legs hook around me, dragging me closer, and she makes a broken sound that detonates my restraint. I grab her tank top, and she shifts, letting me lift it. Seconds later, her leggings slide down, and I release a moan as I look across her bare body.
She's all freckles and sharp angles, lean muscle under pale skin that's flushed from her chest to her cheeks. There's a scar on her hip I've never noticed before — thin, old, silver in the low light — and I want to ask about it, but I know better. Instead, I press my mouth to it, gentle, reverent, and feel her whole body tense and then release, like I've touched something she forgot she was guarding.
"Evan," she breathes, and there's a warning in it, but also permission.
I work my way up, kissing the ridge of her ribs, the soft skin beneath her breast, the hollow of her throat where her pulse hammers fast enough to match mine. She arches into me,fingers raking through my hair, pulling hard enough to sting. I don't mind. The pain keeps me honest — keeps me here, in this room, in this moment, instead of spiraling into the dark where Midnight's threats live.
She tugs at my shirt, and I pull back long enough to yank it over my head. Her eyes drop to my chest, my stomach, lust burning within them.
Her voice comes out slow. Unsure. Gentle. “I want all of you. And I want you to fuck me. Slow. I want to feel it. Can we do that?”
The question undoes me.
Not the words themselves — though they're enough to make my blood sing — but the way she says them. Slow. Unsure. Gentle. Three things Molly Rogers never lets herself be, and she's handing them to me like a gift she expects me to drop.
I lower myself over her, bracing on my forearms, and press my forehead to hers. My breath is ragged, and I don't try to hide it. "Yeah," I say, and my voice sounds like it's been dragged over gravel. "We can do that."
Her eyes search mine, looking for the catch, the joke, the retreat. When she doesn't find one, something behind her expression cracks open — not broken, just... unlocked. She nods once, barely a movement, and her hand comes up to rest against my cheek. Her palm is calloused and warm and shaking.
I turn my face into it and press my lips to the center of her hand. She inhales sharply, as if I've touched a nerve she didn't know was exposed.
I take my time. I owe her that. I owe her more than that, but time is what I have right now, and I'm going to spend every second like currency I'll never earn again.
I kiss her mouth — slow, the way she asked — and feel her soften underneath me by degrees, like ice giving way to something warm. Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, my neck,the cords of muscle at my shoulders, and every touch is a question she's too proud to ask out loud.
I answer with my hands. I run them down the length of her sides, thumbs tracing the ridges of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. I feel the goosebumps bloom under my fingers. She shivers, and I kiss the shiver away, mouth pressed to the hollow beneath her ear where her pulse is going wild.
"You're shaking," I whisper.
"Shut up," she whispers back, but her arms tighten around me, pulling me closer, and the contradiction is so perfectly Molly that it makes my chest ache.
