He carried me down the short hallway, the lights dim, his shoulder brushing the wall like even he couldn’t walk straight while holding this much need.
We passed a couch I’d imagined him sprawled on so many nights, the faint smell of coffee and cedar clinging to the air. I wanted to look at everything, to memorize every inch of the space that belonged to him, but my focus kept pulling back to him…to the warmth of his arms, the sound of his breathing, the steady rhythm of his steps.
When he reached his bedroom, he nudged the door open with his foot and crossed to the bed. The sheets were messy, half pulled back, like he’d been tossing and turning instead of sleeping.
He set me down gently on the edge of the mattress, his hands lingering at my waist before sliding up my sides. My heart felt too big for my chest, my skin buzzing where his fingers trailed.
“Matty,” I breathed.
He looked down at me, eyes dark, pupils blown out, every inch of him strung tight like he was barely holding himself together. His thumb brushed beneath my chin, tipping my face up toward his.
“You look even more perfect on my bed than I imagined,” he said quietly, the words sinking deep and spreading through me like heat under my skin.
They didn’t scare me. They filled something hollow inside me that had always been empty before. Every syllable felt like a thread stitching together all the pieces I’d lost—the ones that already belonged to him, even before he’d known it.
He leaned in, his forehead nearly brushing mine, his voice a rough whisper. “Now I don’t have to imagine anymore.”
The kiss that followed wasn’t soft…it was hungry, consuming, like he’d been starving for me. His mouth claimed mine, stealing my breath only to give it back, over and over, until the world narrowed to the press of his lips and the heat between us. I stopped knowing where I ended and he began.
He cupped my face, then let his hands drift down the curve of my neck and along my sides. I was trembling again…or maybe I had never stopped.
I’d never get used to this.
Never.
My fingers tangled in his shirt, clutching the fabric like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
When he finally pulled back, his mouth hovered just above mine, his voice unsteady, almost wrecked. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
I shook my head fast, probably looking half crazed with how desperate I felt. “I don’t,” I said instantly. That was the last thing I wanted. I wanted more, more, more.
There was no end to how much I wanted him.
Something flickered in his eyes, relief again, maybe, or the same kind of madness that had been living in me for months. He let out a ragged breath and kissed me again, slower this time, like he wanted to memorize every heartbeat between us.
“That’s good…because I don’t think I could even if you begged me to,” he murmured against my mouth, the words thick with want. “Every time I touch you, it’s worse.”
It was like that for me, too, worse in the way obsessions always are once they’re fed. Like something inside me had tasted what it wanted and refused to go hungry again. Every time he touched me, it felt like my body learned a new way to crave him. The ache didn’t fade when he pulled away; it multiplied, spreading through me until even breathing without him hurt. I’d told myself for so long that I could manage it, that wanting him in secret was safer. But now that I’d felt his hands, his mouth, his voice breaking against my skin…I knew I’d never survive pretending again.
Matty’s eyes darkened, that relief turning into something hotter, more primal. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my lips as he kissed me again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my toes curl. His hands roamed, slipping under the hem of my sweatshirt, his fingers splaying across my bare stomach.
The touch was incendiary, a live current that burned through me until I arched into him without thinking.
His palms were warm, calloused from football, and every inch they explored left a trail of fire. I could feel the weight of him through the thin fabric, the solid strength of his body pressing closer, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance between us.
“Ophelia,” he murmured against my mouth, each syllable seeming to drip with the same longing I was feeling.
His fingers traced higher, brushing the underside of my bra, and I gasped, the sensation shooting straight to my core, pooling low and hot. He pulled back just enough to look at me, his blue eyes burning, making my heart stutter in my chest. “You’re sobeautiful. Look at you…already coming apart for me. My pretty baby.”
The words hit me like a wave, praise wrapped in filth, and I melted under them.Pretty baby. How many times had I replayed those words yesterday, his voice deep and claiming in my head, echoing through me like a song I couldn’t stop humming? I’d dreamed of this moment so many nights, alone in my bed, fingers tracing paths on my own skin while picturing his, his broad hands, his full mouth, and the way he’d look at me like I was everything.
And now it was real…his hands on me, his breath mingling with mine, his body pressing me back against the mattress, the sheets cool beneath my shoulders.
He tugged at my sweatshirt, lifting it over my head in one smooth motion, exposing my skin to the cool air of his room. The early morning darkness cloaked the window, the faint glow from a streetlight outside casting soft shadows across his bed, across his face, highlighting the gorgeous line of his jaw, the curve of his lips.
I shivered, not from the chill, but from the way his gaze raked over me, hungry and reverent, like he was seeing something sacred.
“Fuck, look at these gorgeous tits,” he groaned in a voice thick with awe, cupping one breast through my bra, his thumb circling my nipple in slow strokes until it stiffened under his touch, straining against the lace. “So fucking perfect. I need them in my mouth.”
