And then he kisses me.
Not the way he has before.
This one is filthy. Desperate. His mouth claims mine like he’s starving, like he’s finally been allowed a taste of something he thought he’d never have.
And I give it to him.
Gladly.
I moan into him when he walks me backward toward the bed, hands mapping me like cartography. Like he wants to memorize every line of me, every curve, every place that makes me gasp.
When my knees hit the edge of the mattress, he stills.
“Lie down,” he says, low and ragged.
I don’t even hesitate.
The second I do, he crawls over me like he belongs there—shoulders broad, eyes dark, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together with everything he has left.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, even as his hands slide along my thighs, “and I’ll stop.”
I lift my hips to meet his.
“Don’t you dare.”
Hegrowls.
His mouth finds mine again, more urgent now, and I arch under him like gravity no longer applies. My shirt’s gone, tossed somewhere I don’t care to find. His follows. His skin is warm, solid, every line of him pressed against mine.
“You feel like a fucking fever dream,” he mutters into my neck.
I dig my nails into his back. “Then don’t wake up.”
His mouth trails lower—jaw rough against my skin, his large hands steady me in place.
My thighs part instinctively when he shifts between them, the weight of his body pressing down, grounding me.
My head tips back against the pillows as his touch deepens. It’s not rushed. It’s not messy. It’s him. Steady, focused, present.
I bite my lip, trying to keep quiet—the sound that escapes isn’t exactly polite.
He grins against my skin. “Let me hear you.”
And I do, because with Troy Hawkins, I can’t seem to hide.
“I want to makeyoufeel good,” I whisper against his ear, my voice trembling. “Let me...”
His eyes darken as he pulls back to look at me, pupils blown wide with want. “Not yet. What do you need, Delilah?”
I swallow hard, fingers tracing the hard planes of his chest. The words stick in my throat—admitting this feels like revealing a secret I've kept even from myself.
“Take control.Please.”
The request surprises even me. But I need this—need to not be the one making decisions, analysing outcomes, weighing consequences. For once in my life, I want someone else to take the wheel while I just...feel.
His eyes widen slightly before something shifts in his expression. He's primitive, possessive. He rises up on his knees, towering over me with new purpose.
No one has ever made me feel as alive as he does, this present in my own body.
