He rises in one smooth motion, gathers me into his arms, and our mouths crash together again.
The kiss lands harder this time—hungrier, less restrained—like the choice has finally been made and neither of us is pretending otherwise.
His hands slide to my hips, then lower, hooking securely beneath my thighs. I wrap my legs around his waist as my fingers thread through his hair. He groans softly against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, sending a pulse of heat straight to my core.
He turns and carries me up the stairs, never breaking the kiss. Each step jars us together, friction building with every movement, my body instinctively rolling against his. He kicks his bedroom door open and sits on the edge of the bed with me straddling his lap. I’ll bring up the mattress inequality later.
Right now, all I register is the solid heat of him beneath me and the way his grip tightens like he’s afraid to let go.
His hands slide under my tank top, then it’s gone. Cool air skims my skin for half a second before his palms replace it, rough and reverent all at once. I unfasten my bra and toss it aside as he kisses down my throat and across my chest, leaving me breathless and pliant.
Every kiss feels intentional, claimed—not rushed, not careless.
I reach for his flannel, unbuttoning it while he’s distracted. At the last button, he shrugs it off, revealing a torso carved by years of ranch work—muscle, heat, dark hair dusting his chest and trailing down his abs.
My hands skim over him, relearning familiar terrain with new appreciation, my pulse thudding where my fingers linger.
He pops open my shorts and slips his hand inside, beneath denim and cotton. I bite my lip, rocking my hips into his touch, desperate for friction. The contact makes my breath hitch, my control slipping faster than I’m ready for.
He nips my bottom lip. “Patience,” he whispers—suddenly a word I don’t recognize. Not with the way he’s touching me. Not with the way he’s looking at me like I’m something he’s been denying himself for far too long.
I groan into his mouth as he flips us, easing me out of my shorts and boots. The bed dips beneath our combined weight, the sheets cool against my skin before his body shields me from everything else. He kneels between my legs, kissing up my thighs slowly—too slowly—until he finally disappears between them.
My hands clutch at the bedding, my body arching without permission, anticipation coiling tight and sharp.
I’m already wrecked.
“Gage,” I whisper into the dark.
He hums against me, and the vibration causes a ripple of pleasure to course through me. I groan as he grips mythighs, burying himself deeper inside me, fueled by his hunger to make me feel good.
He doesn't rush.
I grip his hair tightly in my hand, pressing my hips forward, feeling myself getting closer to the edge before feeling myself fall over it. There’s no stopping it—no bracing for it—just the sharp rush of release tearing through me. I keep him close as my climax racks my body, and he helps me ride the wave.
My muscles tremble, my vision going white around the edges as he stays with me, grounding me through it instead of pulling away.
When he comes up to meet me on the bed, I waste no time removing him from his jeans with urgency. My hands fumble, impatient and greedy, like I’m afraid if I slow down he’ll disappear. I want him so bad. He chuckles at my hurried pace but chooses not to comment on it.
The sound only makes heat coil tighter in my stomach.
“You’re beautiful like this, Sloane,” he says softly as he hovers over me, as I tug his jeans down completely, and he kicks them off. His voice drops low, stripped of teasing, stripped of armor.
He stares at me like I’m the only woman in the world, and as I grip him between my fingers and watch him become a prisoner to me, I realize that was always the intent.
Not possession—devotion.
“And you’re handsome when you’re like this,” I reply to him, guiding him inside me, gasping as he groans with me. The stretch steals my breath, the connection immediate and overwhelming, like we finally stopped fighting gravity and let ourselves fall.
He wraps my legs back around his waist and props himself on one arm, his bicep flexing as he starts to thrust slowly and deeply. Every movement presses into something deeper than skin, something emotional and raw. I moan softly, closing my eyes, losing myself in the pleasure he’s giving me.
I meet his thrusts, moving my own hips against him, and he whimpers.
The sound cracks something open inside my chest.
“Sloane, please,” he says, and I open my eyes to see him, staring intently at me, and the gaze is so heated and intense that I feel myself come undone again around him.
There’s no anger there. No fear. Just need and want, tangled together.
