“Truth or dare, Cole.”
He studies me. “Truth.”
“Do you have feelings for me like I have feelings for you?”
“Yes.”
“So—”
“You don’t get another turn,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s my turn.”
“You sounded like you didn’t want to play.”
“I changed my mind.” He drags a finger along my bottom lip. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“I dare you not to blame me for ruining you if we cross the line.”
“That doesn’t seem like a real dare.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
His mouth crashes into mine.
He kisses me like he’s starving. Like this is the last night on Earth and I’m the only thing left worth touching.
He presses me into the floor, hand gliding down my thigh, teasing the edge of where I ache the most. Then I feel the press of the condom wrapper tear between us, and he’s already sliding it on.
He sinks into me slow—inch by inch—watching my face, reading my every breath.
I arch against him, and the stretch makes my eyes sting, but I don’t stop him.
“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers.
I shake my head. “No.”
His lips brush mine, and he pushes deeper.
My fingers claw at his back as he finds a rhythm—slow, deep, devastating.
Every thrust is a vow he won’t say out loud. Every sound I make, he drinks in like oxygen.
Then he shifts, hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, and hits a spot that makes me cry out—loud, sharp, raw.
“Fuck, Emily…” His voice is broken. “You feel like—like everything.”
He lowers again, wraps his arms under me and lifts my hips off the ground, grinding into me until my body trembles.
I come hard—shaking, gasping, unraveling in his arms.
And he doesn’t stop.
He rolls us, pulling me on top of him, guiding my hips until I find the rhythm again. This time I take control—riding him slow, deliberate, lost in the feeling of having all of him.
He watches me like I’m the only thing he’ll ever need to see again.
