To be seen.
What he gives me is more than pleasure—it’s connection, clarity, an emotional intoxication that steals the ground from under me.
If this is what being addicted feels like, I understand why people risk everything for it.
Iama little sore. More than a little, if I’m being honest. But the need outweighs the ache, devours it, makes me incapable of wanting anything but him.
He settles between my thighs, eyes locked on mine, and aligns our bodies before pushing into me—completely bare.
The stretch steals my breath, and I feel everything. Every inch. Every heartbeat. Every ounce of him.
He doesn’t move reverently. He moves like he’s fighting himself—like every restrained thrust is threaded with everything he wants but won’t let himself take.
A choked sound slips out of me, vulnerable and unguarded.
His strokes grow rougher, more desperate, emotion bleeding into every movement—he wants to feel every inch, wants to draw out every sound I make, wants to watch me come apart around him like I’m something he’s earned. Something he’s dying for.
The pressure builds, tight and overwhelming. Emotion and sensation blur until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. My nails dig into his shoulders. My hips lift to meet him. My breathing stutters, breaks.
And when it becomes too much—the way he’s holding me, the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered—I let go, breaking apart and crying out his name,shaking beneath him. Wesley follows instantly, forehead pressed to mine, his voice a hoarse whisper against my skin as he falls with me.
Thedrivebackisquiet, but everything inside my head is roaring.
The hum of the old engine vibrates through the seat, and I swear I can still feel his hands on my hips, the press of him, the way my body was like putty beneath his touch.
When we got dressed for the second time, Wesley gave me his hoodie. It’s super oversized on me, but it’s cozy and smells like him. The sleeves swallow my hands, hiding the slight tremble.
We haven’t talked since we climbed back into the truck, and the silence is too full. My breathing is still shaky and I feel like I’m outside of my body.
I sneak a glance at him. His jaw is tight, his profile carved in shadows, one hand gripping the wheel, the other splayed over his thigh.
I wonder if he’s replaying everything the way I am—if his heart is still pounding in his throat, if his skin still feels hot from where mine was.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like more. Like a beginning instead of the almost-end.
The closer we get to the house, the more reality tightens around us. The darkened windows. The silence. The fact that in a few minutes, we’ll have to slip in and go to our separate rooms like nothing happened. As if we’re the same two people we were when we left earlier.
Wesley cuts the engine. The sudden stillness lands between us, heavy, charged. We sit there for a second too long, like we bothknow that when we get out, we’re stepping back into the world where we don’t belong to each other.
We tiptoe into the entryway, the old wooden door creaking louder than necessary as Wesley slowly pushes it shut behind us. We both wince, holding our breath.
The house feels different now—like it knows. Like the walls can hear my heartbeat tripping over itself. Or maybe that’s just me trying to make sense of the way everything inside me shifted in a single night.
I move up the stairs first, my steps careful, testing each stair before putting my full weight on it. When I reach my door, I hover, shifting on my feet. I have no idea what protocol is for this situation.
Do we kiss goodnight? Wave awkwardly? High five?
Before I can decide, Wesley meets my gaze in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window. His eyes sweep over me, searching.
Then he reaches out, slipping his fingers between mine and gently pulling me.
Not toward my room.
To his.
“Shower with me,” he murmurs, his breath caressing the nape of my neck.
“Okay,” I whisper, even though my heart is already answeringyes,screaming it a thousand times over.
