"Yes. Always."
He groans. "You're gonna wreck me, you know that?"
I curl my fingers into his shirt, hanging on. "You're already wrecked. And so am I. Just… wreck me better."
He huffs a hoarse laugh that turns into a moan when I reach for his jeans and cup him properly, fingers squeezing along the hard line.
"Fuck. Bedroom. Now. Before I do exactly what I threatened and bend you over the first flat surface."
"Maybe I want that."
"Yeah?" His eyes flash. "Another night." His voice drops. "Tonight I need to see you. All of you."
He walks me backward down the hall, kissing between words, bumping walls and doorframes, laughing once when I trip over the sneakers I left by the door this morning, and catches us both. We tumble into the bedroom, into the familiar dark.
He flicks on the bedside lamp, its light low and soft. I blink. He stares. Like I'm something holy he wants to worship and devour in equal measure. My lungs seize.
"Take your shirt off," he says. Deeper, rougher.
My fingers tremble only a little as I obey, tugging fabric over my head and letting it fall. His gaze tracks every inch of exposed skin, reverent and hungry.
"Goddamn. You're gonna kill me, Sloane."
"Promise?" I try, but my voice comes out thinner than I'd like.
He steps in, hands finding my face, thumbs against my cheekbones. Eyes holding mine, unflinching. "Come here."
I do. The moment his mouth meets mine, everything else falls away. No Donovan. No auctions. No fathers. Just this man who keeps putting his body between me and the world, even when I won't hand him the reasons why.
He kisses me as though I'm the only thing that makes sense. I kiss him back pretending I believe him. Clothes blur: jeans, bra, his shirt, shedding piece by piece until skin is bare and buzzing and his is pressed flush to mine.
His weight, his heat, the firm line of his thigh between my legs anchors me more than any breathing exercise a therapist ever forced on me. When he slides into me, unhurried and deep, a broken sound tears from my throat. He's thick, hard, and perfect, stretching me open inch by inch until I'm so full I can barely breathe. His forehead drops to mine.
"Jesus, sweetheart," he groans. "You feel… fuck. Perfect. Always perfect."
My hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"Not gonna. Not with you. Never with you."
He moves, patient at first, deep measured thrusts that drag against every hypersensitive nerve. Sparks up my spine, tension coiling in my belly, higher and higher. I wrap my legs around his waist, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, pulling him closer, deeper. A sound catches in his throat, raw and involuntary. His hand drops to cup my hip, pinning me.
"Look at me," he rasps.
I do. His eyes are a storm of want, fear, and need all tangled together.
"Tell me how it feels," he demands, thrusting deeper. "Tell me what I do to you."
My face flames, but the words spill anyway, because this is the one place I let him have them.
"It feels—God—so good. You're so deep. I can feel you everywhere."
His rhythm hitches, hips grinding tight as though he's savoring the sentence as much as the sensation. "That's right, baby. You're gonna feel me for days." Then, quieter, the demand turns raw. "You're mine." A whisper. A vow he can't hold back. "You know that, right? This body… these sounds… all of it."
I should be terrified of words like that. Instead, I arch into him, chasing more, letting them sink in.
"Say it," he urges softly. "Say you're mine."
I swallow, throat thick. My heart slams against my ribs. If you knew what I've done, you'd let go. But he doesn't know. Tonight, standing in that hallway, watching everyone line up behind Candace and Darla without hesitation, a crack split through my chest. A sliver of hope I have no clue how to kill.
