My thoughts scatter—not from fear, but from the way my body responds to him now that it finally feels safe enough to want.
This is different, I realize.
This is allowed.
He murmurs my name again, low and intimate, and I answer with my hands, my breath, the way my hips shift instinctively toward him. He stills immediately.
“Tell me,” he says.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper. “Please.”
That’s all it takes.
He kisses me deeper, slower, and this time there’s no hesitation—just heat and closeness and the steady rhythm of two people choosing each other in the dark. His mouth tracesfamiliar paths, his hands warm and sure, and my body follows without flinching, without remembering anything excepthim.
His mouth crushes into mine again, deeper this time—less of a kiss and more of a need that’s been coiled too tight for too long. There’s no finesse, no restraint. Just hands and heat and that low, broken sound he makes when I pull at his waistband like I’m starving for it.
Jon doesn’t rush. Doesn’t fumble. He cups the back of my neck and kisses me like he’smemorizing me—like he needs the taste of my mouth more than air. When he finally lets go, it’s only to trail his lips down my throat again, murmuring against my skin, “You sure?”
I answer by lifting my hips and grinding against him, needy and unashamed. “Please.”
That’s all it takes.
He growls—an actual growl—and peels my tank top off like it offends him. His hands roam immediately: over my ribs, my stomach, the swell of my hips. His thumbs find my nipples, rolling them until they pebble, until I arch beneath him with a gasp.
“Fuck, sweetheart…” he mutters, voice gravel and reverence. “You’re shaking.”
“I want you to make it worse.”
His gaze snaps to mine—hungry, almost feral. And then he kisses me like he’s angry at himself for holding back.
He shifts down my body, lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin, teeth scraping lightly across my hipbone. When he gets between my thighs, he pauses. His hands spread me open, eyes locked on the soaked mess between my legs.
“Look at you,” he breathes. “Fuck, Delilah—you’re soaked for me.”
I tremble when his tongue drags a slow, devastating line through my folds. I cry out when he wraps his lips around myclit andsucks. He doesn’t tease. Hedevours, groaning into me like I taste like everything he’s ever needed. His hand comes up to hold my stomach down because I can’t stop squirming—can’t stop crying out his name like a prayer turned into a curse.
I come fast. Too fast. It rips through me with a sob, my body arching off the bed. He doesn’t stop. Hekeeps going, tongue lapping through the aftershocks while I writhe and shake and beg.
Only when I tug at his hair, breathless and overstimulated, does he crawl back up and kiss me—messy, claiming, filthy.
“You ready for more?” he whispers against my lips.
I nod, dazed. “I want all of it.”
He groans and grabs a condom from the drawer like he’s beenwaitingfor this—like this moment was always coming, even when he didn’t let himself believe it. His boxers hit the floor, and when he slides the condom on, I can’t stop staring. He’s thick, hard, flushed all the way to the tip. My mouth waters.
But I don’t get time to touch—he's already pushing my legs apart again, lining himself up with one hand while the other cups the back of my thigh and pushes my knee toward my chest.
“Eyes on me,” he rasps.
I obey.
The stretch burns in the best way. Slow. Deep.Real.My fingers claw at the sheets, at his back, at anything I can anchor to becausefuck, he’s big and it’s been so long and I’mso full.
“Goddamn it,” he groans, forehead falling to mine. “You feel like heaven.”
He starts to move. Deep, unhurried thrusts that build and build until I’m gasping beneath him, digging my nails into his shoulders and whisperingmore, harder, please. He gives it to me—hips snapping harder, deeper, until I’m keening, moaning,breaking.
