“Jesus,Addison…” I moan against her mouth.
She’s so tight. So perfect.
Her fingers dig into my shoulder blades as she arches up into me, her body begging for more.
“Oliver,” she gasps. It’s not just the way she says it. It’s the way she feels it, like this isn’t just physical, it’s something more.
I give her everything. Every ounce of want I’ve been holding back since the day she got here. It all pours out in the way I touch her, the way I kiss her, the way I move inside her.
She clutches at my back like she doesn’t want to let go, and I press into her like I never will. It’s messy, and beautiful, and so damn intimate that it almost hurts.
And then she comes, trembling beneath me, calling my name like it’s the only word she knows. What else can I do besides follow her over the edge?
I collapse against her, breathing hard, heart pounding, every inch of me aching. I press a kiss to her temple and roll onto my back.
For a long time, neither of us says anything. We just exist. Wrapped up in a silence that feels more honest than any conversation we’ve ever had.
27
controlled possession
HOW DO I DO THIS? BY KELSEA BALLERINI
My eyes flutter open slowly, like I’m waking up from a dream. My body feels deliciously sore, and yet also, so incredibly rested.
The apartment is quiet. Golden sunlight filters through the curtains. I look to my right and he’s still here.
Fast asleep, legs tangled with mine. We’re a mess of bare skin and twisted linen.
His brown hair is tousled, lips slightly parted. He looks so much younger when he sleeps, so unguarded and untouched by life.
I like it.
And I like him here.
And that freaks me the fuck out.
I breathe in slowly and try to push out of the bed without disturbing him. He shifts a little, but doesn’t wake up. I grab a clean pair of underwear and tug his T-shirt over my head, the scent of him clinging to the cotton.
I take one more glance at him and head into the kitchen. The floor is cold under my bare feet, and the uneven wood creaks with every step.
Coffee first. That’s a necessity, especially if I want to have any kind of rational thought about this.
I can’t even really make him breakfast because I have almost nothing in the apartment. I’ve been living off takeout and the bare essentials since I got here. Luke keeps telling me I live like a raccoon.
As the kitchen fills with the smell of brewing coffee, I lean over the counter and stare out the front window, still trying to wrap my head around what happened last night.
It really happened. The evidence is naked and asleep in my bed.
My mind races, trying to cobble together a plan of action. I know we need to talk about this, but I don’t know where to start.
I hear the soft creak of the bedroom door opening. I don’t even need to turn around. I canfeelhim there.
“Thief,” he says, his voice gravelly from sleep but playful.
I glance over my shoulder and nearly drop my coffee. He’s leaning up against the doorframe in nothing but his jeans, barefoot, with hair even messier than before. And the way he looks at me wearing his shirt?Fuck.
“Morning,” I mutter, my brain short-circuiting. “I—”
