My mouth opens but nothing comes out. Just a needy sound that embarrasses me on a spiritual level.
He fuckinggroansagain. “You’re my drug, Blair. The only thing that’s ever had me so fucking addicted.”
That should scare me. It should fucking terrify me.
Instead I rock against his mouth, chasing every syllable like it’s oxygen.
“Come on, baby,” he mutters, voice rough and wrecked. “Be a good little hit—give me the fucking high I’ve been chasing.”
The orgasm hits hard, no warning. No control. I moan loud, long, head tossing back into the mattress as every muscle in my body pulls tight and explodes. My vision whites out. My legs shake. My core clamps down around his fingers like I never want him to leave.
And honestly?
I don’t.
My body melts into the bed, mind fried, every cell singing like I just got mainlined by euphoria.
He groans again like he’s just fed a fucking craving, licking me like he’s savoring the aftershock.
Then he pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and crawls up my body.
I reach for him without thinking, my hand sliding down to palm him through his jeans.
Holy shit.
He's hard. Big. Like,are-you-kidding-mebig. Of course he is. Because apparently the universe isn’t done fucking with me.
“No.”
I blink. “What?”
He leans in, kissing me. Deep. Lingering. Like he’s trying to remember my taste, my mouth, my fucking soul.
“This wasn’t about fucking you,” he says, voice softer now, but no less intense. “This was about showing you what I can give you. That I can make you feelso goodyou forget how to breathe, without the drugs or the booze.”
He pauses, fingers brushing over my cheek—slow, almost tender—before he stands. His bare chest catches the moonlight leaking through the thin curtain, all abs and ink.
He reaches for his hoodie and jacket, both tossed over the nearby chair, but I sit up fast, grabbing the hoodie with both hands.
“Mine now,” I mumble, already dragging it into my lap like a kid stealing a stuffed animal.
He raises a brow, amused. “You always this clingy after getting off?”
“Only when the hoodie’s soft,” I deadpan.
He huffs a low laugh but doesn’t fight me on it. Instead, he pulls on the leather jacket alone, shrugging it over his shoulders, no shirt underneath. Just warm, tattooed skin and a whole lot of smug attitude.
And I can’t lie.
It’s a fucking look.
Then he grabs my phone off the nightstand, taps something in, and hands it back.
I follow him to the door, tugging his hoodie over my head as I go. It’s too big, sleeves swallowing my hands, the fabric soft and worn and still warm from his body. Smells like smoke and danger and whatever cologne he wears that should honestly be illegal. I sink into it anyway, like it might keep me tethered to what just happened. To him.
He glances back just as I pull the hood up, and that crooked smirk makes a slow appearance, curling at the edge of his mouth like he’s tasting something sweet.
“You look better in that than I do,” he mutters, eyes dragging down my body like he’s mentally peeling the whole thing off me again.
