When his mouth slides down my jaw, licking and nipping my skin, my resistance shreds. The moan that escapes me is helpless, needy,his.
“I want to make you feel good,” he breathes into my ear, and the sound of his voice—low, wrecked—sends tingles down my entire body, melting every coherent thought I have left.
His hand slides between my thighs, rubbing slow circles over my leggingsexactlywhere I’m aching. I swear my heartbeat slips into my throat.
“That—thatfeels good.” The words come out breathy, an almost broken whimper.
“Are you too sore?” he asks between kisses, his lips trailing down my throat like he’s tasting the ache he caused.
Instead of answering, I reach for his waistband, wanting him with a desperation that borders on reckless. He catches my wrist, stopping me with a groan.
“While I love your enthusiasm…we can’t.”
“I’m fine,” I whine in protest. “Iwantto.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth, maddeningly gentle. “I’d love nothing more than to fuck you again. I want it more than I should. But I’m not…prepared.”
“What do you mean?”
“I only brought one condom.”
“Oh.”
“I wasn’t even sure we would use it tonight. Next time, I’ll have an entire box at our disposal. I promise.”
Next time.
He kisses me again—deeper, hungrier. My hips lift into his without permission, rolling against him until all rationality evaporates.
“We still can,” I murmur, dragging my tongue up his throat, tasting the salt of his skin, the pulse hammering under it.
“Sadie…” he groans, a sound so raw it vibrates through his chest. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”
“I’m on birth control,” I confess in a whisper, sliding my palm along the thick, hard length of him through his sweats, watching his eyes flutter shut. “And you know you’re the only person I’ve been with.”
He looks wrecked—brows drawn, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide. I kiss his jaw, slow, coaxing, until he presses his forehead to mine.
“Are you sure?”
I nod, brushing my lips against his. “I want to feel all of you.”
Something primal flickers behind his eyes—want, relief, disbelief, and something like fear.
And that’s it.
That’s the moment he breaks.
Our clothes disappear in a rush of desperate, uncoordinated movements—hands are everywhere, fumbling and frantic with unspoken need. He tosses his sweatpants aimlessly behind him, and my shirt gets half-stuck over my head. He helps me, swearing softly, kissing every inch he uncovers like he’s starving. Ravenous.
He trails his fingertips lightly down my torso, barely touching, and goosebumps bloom in the wake of his path.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Maybe I should be embarrassed by how easily his words undo me, by the way my whole body leans into his praise, craving more.
I’m not.
It feels good to be wanted.
