The filthy tenderness in his voice, the relentless pressure of his thumb, the way he filled me so completely—it was too much. The coil inside me snapped. Pleasure crashed through me in hot, pulsing waves. I cried out, back arching, thighs shaking as Iclenched and fluttered around him, coming so hard I saw stars behind my closed eyes.
He groaned at the feel of me pulsing around him and thrust deeper, chasing his own release. I held him through it, hands in his hair, legs locked around him, whispering his name like a prayer as he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken sound. I felt the hot, rhythmic pulse of him spilling inside me, and it sent another small, sweet aftershock rolling through my body.
For a long moment we stayed locked together, breathing hard, skin damp, hearts pounding against each other. He was careful not to put too much weight on me, but he didn’t pull away. I didn’t want him to. I loved the feeling of him still inside me, softening slowly, the intimate mess of us, the way his breath warmed my neck.
When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were soft and a little dazed.
“Hi,” he whispered.
I smiled, still catching my breath. “Hi.”
He kissed me slowly, sweetly, then carefully shifted to his side, bringing me with him so we stayed connected, tangled beneath the blue quilt. His hand stroked down my back, over the curve of my hip, soothing and possessive at once.
Outside, snow tapped softly against the window.
Downstairs, our family laughed and argued and probably kept Nate away from the staircase by force.
Upstairs, I lay in Dylan’s arms with the steady thump of his heart under my cheek and the delicious, satisfied ache between my legs.
This was what it felt like to be loved by him.
Not just wanted.
Loved.
When the world finally went quiet around us, I was wrapped in his arms beneath the blue quilt, my cheek against his chest, my ring hand resting over his heart. He traced lazy circles over my shoulder, his breathing still uneven.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered, “This room is never going to feel innocent again.”
His laugh rumbled under my ear.
“Cal’s going to know.”
“Cal knows everything.”
“Edge too.”
I groaned.
Dylan kissed my hair. “Regan definitely knows.”
“She probably lit the candle.”
“She absolutely lit the candle.”
I lifted my head and looked at him.
His face was softer in the lamplight, the hard edges eased by exhaustion and happiness. He looked like a man who had survived his own worst instincts and still couldn’t quite believe joy had waited for him on the other side.
“We’re really doing this,” I said.
His hand rose to my cheek.
“Yeah.”
“Marriage.”
