The dam breaks.
He melts into me like he’s drowning, and I’m the first breath he’s taken in years. His hands slide into my hair, down my back, anchoring me with a desperation that’s both tender and hungry. The kiss deepens, tasting of every sleepless night, every unsent message, every regret we’ve been trying to strip away.
His erection strains against cotton pants, growing full and heavy between us.
We stumble backward, collapsing onto the couch without breaking apart. Our limbs tangle as he pulls me into his lap, as if he never wants me anywhere else. His hands roam my thighs, hips, waist, rediscovering places he thought he’d never be allowed to touch again.
I straddle him, and he stills, breath lodging.
Our mouths meet again.
No frenzy. No fury. Just longing, unraveling in reverent touches and shaky breaths. He peels my dress down inch by inch, a gift he’s afraid to open too fast. His hands drift across my skin, relearning every curve, every scar—lyrics he forgot how to sing.
The momentum builds.
I yank the dress off and toss it aside, pressing myself to him until my breasts hover at his mouth. He groans, cupping them in both hands before rolling a nipple with his tongue. My body arches, bows, and I tip my head back, grinding into his lap, chasing friction. A shudder racks through him as I hold his face to my chest, moaning his name like a wanton prayer.
His mouth stays latched as his hands trail lower, sliding under the band of my underwear. He lifts his hips, and I reach down, tugging at his sweatpants until his cock springs free.
Thick, flushed, already leaking.
My breath hitches.
I wrap my fingers around him and begin to stroke. Chase lets out a broken sound and falls back against the couch, head sloped, lips parted, chest rising fast. His hands grip my hips, the only thing tethering him to this earth.
I shimmy out of my underwear and climb back into his lap, his cock teasingthe slick heat between my thighs. But before I can sink down, he lifts me, strong hands bracketing my ass, and hauls me up to his mouth.
His tongue slides between my legs.
My entire body shatters.
I cry out, clinging to him, bucking against his mouth as he devours me with that same bruising mix of hunger and worship. His hands pin me open, guiding my movements, coaxing out every fractured moan, every tremble, every gasp of his name like a song he already knows by heart.
I grind against his face, shameless and wild, until an orgasm blindsides me, hitting hard, sudden and ferocious.
I’m still quivering when he lowers me back to his lap, his lips slick with me, eyes feral and glassy like he’s witnessed something holy.
“Come here,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
I reach for him, hands threading through his hair, pulling him into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue, messy and consuming. His cock presses hot against me, nudging where I’m already aching, already soaked. I shift my hips, guiding him to my entrance, and we both freeze.
His hands tighten at my waist. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I murmur, touching my forehead to his.
He exhales, releasing a breath he’s been holding since the day he left.
And then he pushes inside.
I sink onto him, into him, the melancholy melting away.
We gasp in unison, our bodies going still as he stretches me open, careful and slow, his hands shaking where they hold me. My nails dig into his shoulders as I cling, grounding myself in the heat, the fullness, the overwhelming relief of him being inside me again. Of this not being a memory or a misstep, but a moment.
A picture-perfect piece.
His lips graze my temple, my cheek, my mouth as he bottoms out, and we stay there—connected, frozen—just breathing each other in.
Then we move together. A slow, desperate rhythm. No rush, no need to prove anything. Just the soft slap of skin, the quiet pants and moans, the sharpedges of grief worn smooth by love.
