His forehead falls to mine.
Both of us breathing hard now.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and dark and unfairly amused, “that sure looked like it affected you.”
A laugh breaks out of me through the leftover tears.
Small.
Shaky.
Broken around the edges.
I hate that he got that from me.
I hate even more that I don’t hate it enough.
His thumb brushes once under my eye, catching the last dampness there, and then he settles me back against his chest like the kiss changed everything and nothing all at once.
And this time, when I fold into him, I do it knowing.
Not healed.
Not over Tristan.
So I do something stupid, I grab the back of his head and pull him down for more.
The kiss is still burning on my mouth when he pulls back, forehead pressed to mine, both of us breathing like we just ran suicides. My body is humming, traitorous and alive in ways it has no right to be after the night I’ve had. His hand is still at the back of my neck, big and warm and possessive, and I can feel how hard he is against my thigh through his sweats—thick, insistent, impossible to ignore.
He’s mad. I can feel it in the tension coiled through every muscle of him. Mad that I answered my mother. Mad that I’m still tangled up in Tristan even after everything. Mad that I kissed him back like I meant it and then looked guilty about it.
But he’s not letting me go.
“Shh,” he murmurs against my lips when I start to speak. His voice is low, rough, threaded with something darker than usual. “Your heart cries for him… but your body does for me.”
I shiver. Hard.
“Drew—” It comes out half protest, half plea.
He doesn’t let me finish. His mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s proving a point with every stroke of his tongue. One big hand slides down my side, under the hem of his own oversized t-shirt I’m wearing, and I gasp into his mouth when his fingers brush the bare skin of my inner thigh.
He finds how wet I am instantly.
A low, satisfied sound rumbles out of his chest. “Fuck, baby girl. Soaked for me already.”
I should be embarrassed. I’m not. The meds from earlier are long gone, but the ache in my leg is nothing compared to the one building between my thighs. His fingers slide through my slickfolds, find my clit, and circle it once—slow, deliberate, filthy. My hips jerk.
“Joder…” The Spanish slips out before I can stop it. Heat floods my face, but he just groans like it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard.
“That’s it,” he rasps. “Let me hear you.”
He eases one thick finger inside me, then two, stretching me, curling just right while his thumb keeps working my clit. I moan again, louder this time, the words tumbling out messy and desperate in Spanish I didn’t even know I had in me right now.
“No pares… Drew, por favor… me haces… ay Dios…”
He curses under his breath and pumps his fingers deeper, faster, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room with only the fire and the rain for company. My head falls back against his shoulder. The t-shirt rides up. He shoves it higher with his free hand until it’s bunched under my arms, then yanks it off completely in one impatient motion.
Cool air hits my skin. Then his mouth is there—hot, wet, fastening over one tight nipple. He sucks hard, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make me cry out. My hands fly into his hair, holding him there while his fingers keep fucking me, relentless and perfect.
