But I don’t vanish. I lean in.
That’s all it takes. The pressure shifts, deepens. His other hand comes up to frame my face, holding me there as his mouth claims mine with a hunger that’s been simmering under the surface for years.
I can feel it in the way his body crowds mine, in the low sound he makes against my lips — a sound that’s half relief, half possession. My hands find his chest, sliding up to curl around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
It stops being careful. It stops being measured. It’s teeth and breath and heat, and the taste of him making my head spin.
His hands move — down my back, gripping my hips, pressing me flush against him. I feel the hard line of his desire, and my own need answers, sharp and insistent.
“Lyla…” he murmurs against my mouth, and it’s almost a plea.
I kiss him harder, because this — this — is what I’ve imagined more times than I could ever admit. No Colton. No Aaron. No distance. Just us.
When his lips leave mine to trail along my jaw and down the column of my throat, I tilt my head, my breath catching as heat floods low in my belly.
There’s nothing in the way anymore.
His mouth finds mine again, hot and urgent, as his hands skim down my sides. “Come with me,” he murmurs against my lips.
I don’t hesitate.
He backs us toward the hallway, our steps uneven because neither of us wants to break the kiss for more than a second. My fingers hook into his sweatshirt, dragging him closer every time he tries to put space between us.
We reach his room — bare walls, a half-assembled dresser in the corner, and the bed that looks like the only thing he’s finished here. He pulls me in, shutting the door with a soft thud, and then he’s crowding me back against it, his body heat sinking into mine.
The kiss deepens again, but this time it’s slower, like he’s savoring. His hands are everywhere — sliding under my shirt, mapping the skin of my waist, my ribs, my back. My own fingers find the hem of his sweatshirt, tugging it upward until he peels it over his head.
God. The way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing that matters in this room, in this town, maybe in his whole life — it makes my knees weak.
We undress each other in uneven bursts, stopping only to kiss or run our hands over newly exposed skin. When my jeans hit the floor, he steps back just enough to look at me, his chest rising and falling.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he says, low and rough, before he’s kissing me again, walking me backward until the backs of my legs hit the bed.
I sink down onto it, and he follows, bracing himself above me. His hands slide up my thighs, his touch reverent but hungry, and when I reach for him, pulling him down to me, it’s not just about the physical need — it’s the years we’ve both been waiting for this.
There’s no rush. No pretending. Just us, finally giving in.
Every kiss, every stroke of his hands feels like a confession. And every sound he pulls from me is an answer — yes, I want this. Yes, I wantyou.
By the time he’s inside me, we’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked.
“This,” he murmurs, thrusting slow, deliberate, “isn’t fake.”
And I believe him.
His pace deepens, steady and consuming, and I cling to his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin. His mouth is hot at my ear, breath ragged.
“I hated it,” he growls, every word a rough thrust inside me. “Seeing you with him. Knowing you were in his bed instead of mine.”
A shiver ripples through me, sharp and sweet.
“I heard about the first time you fucked him,” Damien says, voice dark, possessive. “And I was fuming. Couldn’t stand thinking about his hands on you. About him making you feel good. About him… pulling that wild side out of you when it should’ve been me.”
My breath catches, the confession hitting me like another kind of touch. “Damien…”
His mouth drags down my neck, teeth grazing my skin. “You’ve been his good girl long enough.” His hips grind into me, the rhythm deliberate, almost punishing. “Don’t you want to know what it feels like to be bad?”
“Yes,” I gasp, the word torn from me without thought.
