Because I do know.
I know exactly what I’m walking into.
I kiss him again and this time he kisses me back for real, hand sliding into my hair, mouth opening under mine, and that’s it. That’s the end of pretending this is manageable.
In Pittsburgh I was still fighting it. Still making jokes in my head. Still keeping one foot out the door even when both feet were very much inside the room.
This time I’m here. Fully here. No jokes. No exit.
He kisses me like he has all the time in the world. That’s what undoes me first. Not urgency. Not hunger. The patience of it. The way he keeps giving me room to stop and somehow makes me want to do the opposite.
I move against him. His breath changes. That alone almost does me in.
He says my name once, low, and it goes straight through me.
He gets my t-shirt off. It’s gone — somewhere on the floor — and I’m in just abra with his cat asleep on the back of the couch and his mouth on my collarbone and I am no longer pretending this is manageable.
I want him in my mouth.
I don’t tell him. I just slide off his lap onto my knees on the floor between his.
His eyes follow me down.
“Nova.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to—”
A second. Hand on his thigh. Looking up.
“Yeah, I do.”
He breathes out once. His hand comes to my hair. Warm and heavy, fingers spread against my scalp.
I undo his belt — the leather hissing through the loops — and pop the button on his jeans. He lifts his hips slightly to help me, the same cooperative gesture from Pittsburgh, and that gesture itself does something to me. The way he’s never made me work to do this.
I free him.
Hard, thick, the head flushed and already wet. I wrap my hand around the base and feel his pulse against my palm and look up.
He’s looking at me with an expression I haven’t seen on his face before. Open. Wrecked already and I haven’t even started.
I lean in and run my tongue from his base to the tip. Slow. Swirling around the head, tasting him.
His abs contract sharply against my forearm.
“Jesus.” His hand tightens in my hair. Not a demand. Just reaction — him losing the careful quality he carries everywhere.
I love how he talks me through it. Firm and specific and honest in the way he’s honest about everything — no performance, just true.
“That’s it, baby.” Voice rough. “Your mouth is so fucking hot.”
I take him deeper. Relax my throat. Let him fill me. I’m wet for him — soaked through my underwear, my thighs pressed tight together because the ache of it is sharp and I can’t help it. My free hand drifts down between my own legs.
He sees.
“Christ — Nova — are you—”
