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Not just the kiss or the heat or the ache that’s been building for weeks.

I want him. All of him.

Even the parts that broke me.

Even the parts that scare me.

He exhales like the confession shatters whatever control he had left.

“Mya…”

I nod, threading my fingers through his hair. “Take me home.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

MYA

The ride back is a blur.

I know I’m in the truck, I know the roads are winding and familiar, but the only thing I’m truly aware of is the way Fletch keeps glancing at me like he’s one second away from pulling over and wrecking me right there in the cab.

We don’t talk.

We don’t need to.

Because whatever we didn’t say out loud on that porch is still hanging between us—thick and electric and inevitable.

By the time we reach the cottage, my pulse is a steady thunder in my ears. The lights are off in the main house. The twins are with Reese, tucked away in the nursery I haven’t been able to walk into since the day we brought them home.

And the second Fletch closes the front door behind us, I turn.

Our mouths crash together again, desperate and consuming, teeth clashing, hands pulling. He presses me back against the door and groans when I tug at his hoodie, yanking it up and over his head like I need it gone—which I do. God, I do.

His hands find the hem of my sweater, fingertips grazing the warm skin of my stomach, and I shiver under his touch. Not from the cold.

From need.

“I’ve wanted this,” he rasps against my throat, lips brushing skin that’s already flushed and hypersensitive, “for so long I think I forgot what it feels like to breathe without you.”

My breath stutters. My nails scrape down his back.

And then we’re moving again—tripping down the hallway, bumping into walls, tearing at clothes like we can’t stand one more second with fabric between us.

By the time we reach the bedroom, we’re half-naked and half-insane with the need that’s been simmering for weeks—months—maybe years.

He lays me down on the bed with a reverence that doesn’t match the hunger in his eyes. But then he’s on top of me, kissing me slow, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my mouth. His hands roam—palming my hips, my thighs, dragging moans from me like he’s addicted to the sound.

I arch into him, wrapping my legs around his waist, and when I whisper his name, it comes out broken and breathless.

“Mya,” he says, his voice thick and full of ache, “are you sure?”

I answer him with a press of my lips and a barely-there nod, savoring his taste, his smell, the feel of his weight on me. His cock is hard against my belly but he lifts onto his forearms when I reach between his to stroke his hard, thick length. I press the head of his cock through the lips of my sex until he nudges my slick entrance. He rolls his forehead against mine and slides in, slowly and with intent. My back arches off the bed at the feel of him filling me inch by glorious inch. My body stretches to accommodate him, and the fullness is exquisite torture because he’s going slow. Taking his time.

“Fletch,” I exhale breathlessly. “Please.”

He opens his eyes and searches mine, most likely to gauge if I’m okay. But I want him. badly. And God, I hope he sees it because about to beg if I have to. Without warning, he hooks my legs over his forearms, changing the angle, and slams into me, rocking the bed frame. I dig my nails into his biceps and bite my lip to smother the cry that so badly wants to escape. Fletch tucks his face into my neck, and bites the soft flesh on the next thrust, and my body lights up like a beacon. Yes, this is what I want. Fletch grips my head between his big hands, and kisses me through the next thrust and the next, until we’re breathing heavily and in sync.

I pull away and gasp. “Yes. Oh, God, Fletch. Harder.”