My spine straightens. Is it Scott?
Large, rough hands settle on my waist—warm, solid, fingers spreading wide. The grip is firm but patient, no rush, no shake. He draws me in slowly until my breasts press against the hard wall of his chest. Tall. Broad. Nothing but dense muscles under the fabric. Solid in a way that makes my breath hitch.
He doesn’t feel like Scott.
My palms slide up thick forearms, over wide shoulders, mapping unfamiliar ridges and planes. Everything is new. Foreign. My pulse skips at the sheer strangeness of it—someone who doesn’t already know every scar and fault line.
His hands move without hesitation. They glide up my sides, trace the length of my arms, then—slow, deliberate—cup my face. Thumbs brush my cheekbones like he’s memorizing the shape of me. Like time belongs to him.
Then his mouth covers mine.
I flinch slightly at the sudden contact, but he stays. The kiss begins soft, restrained. Warm lips press with quiet certainty, not tentative, not devouring. Just… sure.
He tastes like aged whiskey and the darkest chocolate—rich, lingering, slow burning,—coating my tongue. A low rumble vibrates from his chest into mine, satisfied, almost pleased.
One hand slides into my hair, fingers threading deep at the roots, tilting me exactly where he needs me. The other hand settles at the small of my back, broad palm pressing me closer until there’s no air between us. He anchors me there, like I might float away if he lets go.
The kiss deepens—unhurried, confident. His tongue traces the seam of my lips once, patient, coaxing. When I part for him, he slips inside slowly. Exploring. Tasting with no frantic claim, just deliberate strokes that make heat coil low in my belly despite myself. He knows what he’s doing. Every tilt, every gentle suck on my lower lip, every soft glide of tongue is precise, practiced. The kind of skill that usually melts thought into nothing.
My fingers curl into his shoulders, gripping hard. My body leans in—instinct, not choice—chasing the slow burn.
He’s good. Devastatingly good. But something is missing.
I feel it like a shadow under the pleasure. No spark of recognition. No shared history. This is clean. Easy. A perfect stranger who knows nothing about the wreckage inside me.
This should feel like freedom. Instead, it feels…empty.
When he finally eases back, his lips linger for a moment. His hands slide down my arms, find my hands, lace our fingers for one suspended second. Then he lets go.
I hear footsteps retreat—unhurried, same as they came.
I stand frozen. Lips tingling, swollen. Chest heaving in shallow bursts. Skin buzzing where he touched.
Who was that?
Curiosity flickers, bright and unbidden, in my mind. But another question forms that’s louder, sharper. A question that sinks into my bones.
Why does a kiss that perfect leave me feeling…nothing?
I don’t have much time to fully process these questions before I hear footsteps coming at me fast—too fast. Then the scent of cedar and rain slam into me, wrapping around my lungs until my chest seizes.
Scott.
He’s right there. Close enough that his heat licks my skin before he even touches me. His breathing saws, rough, uneven, like he’s been running full-out. Or like he’s ravenous.
“My turn,” he rasps, voice scraped raw.
His hands capture my face—strong, unyielding, thumbs pressing under my jaw like he’s locking me exactly where he wants me. No room to escape. No room to think.
“I need you.” The words vibrate against my mouth, low and feral.
Then his lips crash into mine. Hard. Hungry. No preamble.
Everything else vanishes. The world shrinks to the brutal press of his mouth, the scrape of his five-o’clock shadow raking my chin, the way his arms band around me and yank me flush against him until I feel every rigid inch of his body molding to mine. His tongue pushes in—demanding, stroking deep—and I taste salt, heat, and something darker, something that’s all him. I open wider on instinct, meeting him stroke for stroke, chasing the invasion like I’ll die if I don’t.
A growl rumbles in his chest. It vibrates through me, settles low in my belly, and lights me up. My fingers twist into his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. I arch into him. My hips rolling forward until the thick, insistent ridge of him presses right where I ache most. A shock of need spears through me, sharp and sweet, and a moan tears out of my throat before I can stop it.
He answers with a rough sound, cups my face tighter, angles me so he can go deeper. His teeth catch my bottom lip—sharp enough to sting. Then his tongue soothes the bite in a slow, deliberate drag that makes my knees buckle. I whimper into his mouth, the sound swallowed by him, and everything inside me knots tighter: grief, want, years of buried ache unraveling at once.
