Page 108 of All Our Nevers

Owen comes to rest between my legs. And just as he’s lowering his mouth to me, when I’m so turned on I might explode from the first touch of his tongue, he pauses—less than an inch between his mouth and the core of my need—and blows a gentle, cool breath over the place where I ache for him.

I can’t control the sound that escapes me, or the way my hips rise towards him, begging him to bridge the gap. He tucks his shoulders under my thighs, wrapping his big hands around my hips and pulling me closer. Then finally—finally—he drags his tongue over me in a long, slow path.

“Oh,” I groan, pressing my palms into the wall above the bed. I’m untethered, needing an anchor, but desperate to preserve the fragile physical thread of this moment. “More. Please. Give me more.”

And he does. His fingers press needy reds into the soft flesh of my hips and his pace increases, tongue flicking over me with the same passion and dedication he gives to everything in his life. I can’t help but cry his name to the ceiling, until, with one final lick, he pulls back, repositioning himself to crawl back up my body.

At the top of the mattress, he lowers his face over mine, lips a millimeter away. Everything he does is controlled, nothing rushed or assumed. And just when I think he’ll lower his mouth to mine, instead he reaches up to check the knot in the yarn, giving it a small tightening tug.

He winked down at me, “Just checking.”

Despite myself, I feel a broad smile crack across my face. “You’re the worst.”

“Am I?” he asks, lowering himself to just above my lips again. “Because I was about to take my clothes off and fuck you. But if I’m the worst—”

I cut him off, jolting forward to capture his mouth with mine, and I can feel him smiling through the kiss.

And that moment, right then, is when I realize I’m in love with him.

Because for all the games we play, for all our teasing and fighting and missteps, Owen Walsh lights up when I’m truest to myself. He brings out the realest parts of me. And I’m well aware those parts aren’t all good or palatable. I’m impatient and demanding and critical and brutal. But he sees it all, and still he smiles against my lips.

“Owen,” I say between kisses, abandoning my pride completely in the light of this realization. “You’re not the worst. You’re the best. Now please, please fuck me.” I bite his lip for good measure before adding, “I need it.”

He growls, then pulls back off the bed. Every intimate part of me is exposed as he pulls off his shirt, then his pants. My legs fall open, inviting him there. My chest rises and falls with heavy breaths and I let it—I let him see exactly what he does to me.

The last of his clothes hits the floor and he’s so hard it looks painful.

“Look at what you do to me, Lia.” He brazenly takes hold of himself, driving his fist up and down as he stalks towards the bed. “You’re the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. And you know it, don’t you?” His grin tells me just how much he likes that, likes my confidence, likes me.

Dammit, how could I not be in love with him?

“Yes,” I say, staring shamelessly at the evidence of his desire. “I can tell.”

My smirk adds fuel to his fire. He’s on the bed in a flash, positioning himself between my legs and wasting no time as he drags himself tantalizingly across the place I need him.

“Fuck,” he groans. “So wet for me.” He leans forward to kiss me again, grinding his hips forward, driving my need higher.

“God,” I groan against his mouth. “Will you fuck me already?”

He chuckles as he sits back up, trailing his hands down my body. Over my breasts, my waist, my hips. Moving his palms to my inner thighs and spreading me wider.

“Well, you have been good. Maybe you deserve a reward.”

I recognize my own words in his mouth, but am honestly too turned on to laugh or mock him for it. Instead I just say, “Please.”

He takes hold of his shaft again, stroking once more before finally—finally—guiding himself inside me. We both moan in relief, but I need more, need him so badly, need him to take whatever he wants so I can let go—not think about a thing except for how good he feels inside me.

And he knows. Somehow, he always knows, because he starts moving his hips, and it’s deep and slow and everything I need. His lips are on my face, my neck, my chest, taking me out of my head and into my body where I want to stay forever, with him, hearing praise whispered in my ear as my pleasure grows higher.

And yet lost as I am in passion, I don’t let the yarn break.

“I can’t believe—” I rasp into his ear “—how good this is. I can’t believe I like this. But you’re so fucking sexy when you’re in charge.”

He kisses me deeper, twining his fingers into my hair as he thrusts into me, deeper, savoring. For a moment, this thing between us teeters off the edge of lustful into tender. His motions slow, and he looks into my eyes as he says, “Thank you.”

“For what?” I ask.

“For everything.” He trails one hand up my arm until his fingers close over my wrists, the single piece of yarn there, my offering to him. “This whole trip.” He kisses me again. “You’re fantastic company, your body is ridiculous.” I laugh between brushes of his lips. “But your trust… your trust is everything.” His mouth travels across my jaw, then over the pulse in my neck, and his words echo in my bones. “Your trust makes me feel like I’m worth something. Like I might have some good in me after all.”