ONE SIXTY THREE
The cool air hit my thighs, sending a shiver skimming up my spine. But it wasn’t the chill that made me tremble—it was him. It was the look in his eyes, dark and blazing, like he was about to devour me whole.
Dominic’s hands slipped under my knees, spreading me open with a slow, deliberate drag. My breath hitched, heart rattling against my ribs as he settled between my thighs, the weight of his body grounding me, pinning me to the couch in the best, most helpless way.
I was drowning in him—his scent, his heat, the heavy thrum of need in the tiny space between us.
His mouth found my hipbone first, a soft, reverent kiss, before trailing up, up, leaving a trail of heat along my stomach, my ribs. I arched into him instinctively, my hands fisting in his shirt, desperate for more.
“Dominic,” I whimpered, barely recognizing my own voice, wrecked and shaking.
He lifted his head, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. There was so much in that look—hunger, fear, adoration, heartbreak—all twisted together into something that made my throat close up.
“This isn’t just need, Eleanor,” he said, voice rough, unsteady. “It’s you. Always you.”
My heart fractured and healed all at once. I surged up, grabbing his face between my hands, pulling his mouth back to mine.
And then we were lost.
He shoved my sweatpants down the rest of the way, yanking them off my ankles and tossing them blindly behind him. His jeans followed with a hurried, desperate clatter of belt and zipper. The second he was free, he pressed against me, the hard, hot length of him dragging against my center, making both of us gasp.
He didn’t rush. He rocked into me slowly at first, dragging himself along my slickness, making sure I felt every inch of him, every aching second of the wait we'd endured.
I arched against him, thighs tightening around his hips, urging him closer, deeper.
“Please,” I breathed, the word slipping out before I could stop it. “Dominic, please.”
He growled low in his throat—a sound that went straight between my legs—and then he shifted, angling his hips just right, and in one smooth, devastating thrust, he pushed inside me.
I cried out, my back bowing off the couch, the stretch of him filling me so perfectly, so deeply, it nearly shattered me.
He froze, forehead dropping to mine, his body trembling with restraint.
“Okay?” he rasped, his voice barely a thread of sound.
“Yes,” I gasped, nails digging into his back. “God, yes, don't stop.”
He pulled out slowly, almost torturously, and then slammed back into me with a force that made the couch shudder beneath us.
I bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming, my whole body lighting up with pleasure so intense it felt almost like pain.
Dominic set a punishing rhythm, every thrust a promise, a confession, a desperate, reckless act of worship. His hands slid under my ass, lifting me into him harder, deeper, as if he could crawl into my skin, stitch himself to me, and never let go.
I wrapped myself around him, legs tightening, arms clinging, mouth finding his whenever I could, biting, kissing, gasping.
The room faded. The world faded.
There was only this.
Only him.
Only us.
I could feel myself building higher and higher, my body tensing, my breath coming in short, wild gasps.
“Dominic,” I sobbed against his mouth. “I’m—oh God—I'm close—”
“Let go,” he ordered roughly, snapping his hips into mine harder, faster. “I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
That was all it took.
I shattered around him with a cry, clenching tight, my whole body wracked with tremors of release.
Dominic groaned deep in his chest, his thrusts growing erratic as he chased his own release. A few more frantic, punishing drives of his hips and he followed me over the edge, his body stiffening, a rough shout torn from his throat as he spilled inside me.
We clung to each other, shaking, gasping, lost in the wreckage of what we’d just done.
It was messy. It was reckless. It was absolutely, painfully perfect.
And even as the aftershocks faded and the world started creeping back in—the house, the danger, the chaos waiting outside these walls—I knew one thing for certain.
There was no going back.
Dominic was mine.
And I was his.
Always.
The living room was dim and quiet, save for the occasional creak of the house settling deeper into the silence of early dawn. I didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was early, maybe a little past four. There was no sign of daylight beyond the window, only the bluish tint of darkness that clung to everything like velvet. But even in the hush, in the softness of that quiet hour, I could feel the heaviness of reality suspended for a moment, like the world had decided to pause just long enough to let me breathe.
Dominic and I were tangled together on the couch, limbs a mess of exhaustion and intimacy. The cushions beneath us had grown warm from our shared body heat, and though the couch wasn’t nearly big enough to hold us comfortably, it somehow felt like the only place I wanted to be. My body ached from the cramped position: the way my shoulder was angled beneath his neck, the soft throb at my lower back, the weight of his arm still slung protectively over my waist. But none of that mattered. The discomfort was nothing compared to the weightlessness I felt lying here with him, our skin stuck together in places, the scent of last night’s heat and sweat still lingering faintly in the air between us. We should’ve moved to the bed. We should’ve untangled ourselves at some point, slipped under covers and into fresh sheets. But we hadn’t. We couldn’t. Because something about being curled into each other here, in this vulnerable, open space felt more sacred than any bed could ever offer.
I was on my side now, facing him, with one leg draped around his waist and my body drawn as close to him as humanly possible. My palm lay flat on his bare chest, the rise and fall of his breath steady beneath it, grounding me. He was still asleep, his face soft and slack in rest, the edge of his jaw slightly rough with new stubble. His shirt had been discarded somewhere in the dark last night, forgotten, and the warmth of his skin against mine made me press in closer. My thigh was nestled into the curve of his hip, my cheek resting close enough to his collarbone that I could hear the faint thump of his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Real. God, he was real. And here. With me. After everything. After all of it.
There was something about this kind of closeness, this quiet aftermath, that felt more intimate than any moan or kiss from the night before. There was no more urgency, no rush. Just this softness, this breathless in-between where we could exist without having to explain why we needed each other so badly. My fingers idly traced across his skin, barely brushing the line of a scar I hadn’t noticed last night. And as I lay there, tangled with him, suffocating in his warmth and the weight of his arm, I thought about how perfectly imperfect this was. The couch was too small. My foot had long ago lost circulation. But I wouldn’t have traded this moment for a thousand nights in the most comfortable bed.
Because comfort wasn’t about luxury—it was about this. About the way he sighed in his sleep when I shifted a little. About the way my fingers fit into the ridges of his ribs. About the way our legs had knotted together as if neither of us could bear to let the other go. This, right here, was what home felt like. Not the space. Not the couch. Him. Us. Waking up breathless and sore and still needing to be close. And I knew, in the way you know certain things deep in your marrow, that I’d hold onto this feeling forever if I could.
I closed my eyes again, not ready to let the morning in. Not yet. I just wanted a little more time wrapped around him, listening to the rhythm of his heart and pretending we didn’t have to move, or speak, or face whatever waited for us beyond the cocoon of this couch.
And then…
The shattering of glass pierced through the air.
I jolted upright, heart lurching in my chest so violently I thought it might tear itself out. Dominic was already off the couch before I could blink, wide awake in a blink, his instincts razor-sharp and terrifyingly fast. He didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to. His whole body snapped into motion, tense, alert, scanning. The sound had come from deeper in the house, near the hallway that led to the guest rooms and the back door.
Then came the scream.
High-pitched. Frantic. Female.
Tina.
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