ONE SIXTY TWO
“Tell me you missed this,” he murmured, his voice a rasp of want and memory.
I swallowed hard, my forehead pressed to his. “I missed you,” I said. “All of you. Every stupid, reckless second.”
He groaned into my mouth, the sound low and primal, his hands slipping beneath my shirt and dragging the fabric up. His fingers brushed over my skin, my sides, my ribs, relearning me like he hadn’t already committed it all to memory.
I gasped again, unable to keep the sounds in anymore. My head dropped to his shoulder, my lips brushing his neck. The warmth of him, the familiar scent that pulled me straight back into years of stolen moments and half-whispered promises, overwhelmed me.
“Maybe we shouldn’t…” I whispered, though the words barely held any conviction. My fingers curled into the back of his shirt, clutching him like he might disappear if I let go.
“I don’t care,” he breathed out, voice ragged with hunger and frustration. “I’m tired of pretending I can go another night without touching you.”
And God, neither could I.
Without another word, he shifted. One strong arm braced beneath my thighs, the other cradling my back. I squeaked as he rose, my legs still wrapped around his waist, and he groaned — that familiar, deep sound of pain and want mixing together — nearly collapsing back onto the couch again.
“Wait—your stomach,” I whispered, concern catching in my throat.
He shook his head, adjusting me more firmly in his hold. “Don’t. I’ve carried worse.”
I knew he had. And I knew better than to argue when his jaw clenched like that.
He lowered me carefully onto the larger couch, letting my back press into the cushions, his breath hot against my skin as he hovered above me. His eyes searched mine like he needed permission, or maybe he just needed to see if I was real. If I was really here.
The room was silent, except for the hammering of our hearts and the soft brush of fabric against skin as he tugged at the waistband of my sweatpants. My breath caught. I kept perking my ears, waiting for a creak of the floor, the thud of a door, footsteps on the stairs, anything to signal that someone might walk in.
“Dominic—” I started, hesitating.
“I don’t care if they hear,” he muttered, dragging the fabric lower, his knuckles brushing my bare legs. “I’ve waited long enough.”
The cool air hit my skin, making me shiver. I hadn’t thought twice about what I was wearing, no underwear, no prep, nothing polished, but he didn’t seem to care. Not about that. Not about anything except the way I was reacting to him.
He looked at me like I was art he hadn’t seen in years. Like something sacred. And when he leaned in, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses on the inside of my thigh, I arched instinctively. His lips were feather-light, but each press left fire in its wake.
I shuddered.
His hands held my legs gently while I anticipated feeling his tongue against me, spreading me a little more so he could lean closer. I reached for the edge of the couch, trying to ground myself, but it was no use, the weight of years apart, the echo of every night I’d cried thinking I’d never have this again, had me floating.
His voice was low, teasing, warm against my skin. “You remember what it felt like, don’t you?”
I bit my lip, nodding faintly.
A thousand memories surged.
One night — our old apartment, years ago. We’d been quiet, too quiet, lying on the floor between half-unpacked boxes. He’d kissed his way down my stomach, whispered my name like it was the only one he knew, and showed me what it meant to fall apart without a single sound.
Another memory, the back of his car. Rain streaking the windows, our clothes half-on, half-off. I’d nearly screamed when his mouth found me, but he’d pressed his hand to my lips, eyes wild, daring me to stay silent.
The bathroom at a family friend’s engagement party. We’d ducked inside, drunk on champagne and each other. He’d pulled me onto the counter, his mouth relentless, hands gripping my thighs like they were lifelines.
And the beach hidden behind a jagged dune, the crash of waves barely masking the desperate sounds between us. He’d kissed every part of me like it was the last time. Like he was memorizing me with his mouth.
Here and now, in this living room, on this couch, with the house asleep around us and danger not far from our backs, every one of those memories surged to the surface.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel broken.
I just felt… his.
Slowly, he parted my legs much wider. My heart pounded and my stomach felt queasy. I could feel the wetness between my thighs, how I drip, how I could feel his warmth as he got closer, he stuck his tongue out and the first lick had my heart pummeling.
I flung my head back as he stroked through my folds, enough to let me cry out.
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