Chapter Six #2
A hot, sharp pull twists low in my gut. Holy shit.
I don't say it out loud; I just drag him back into a kiss. He gives it to me—gives it to me like he’s done pretending he doesn't need it.
His hands hook into the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling me closer until there isn't a breath of air between us.
I step back just enough to look at him. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen, his breathing a total wreck. He looks like he’s barely holding the world together. And then I realize—he isn't trying to stop tonight.
"Bedroom?" I ask, my voice barely a rasp.
He stares at me as if he’s forgotten that was an option. Then his gaze flicks down the hall and back to me. He nods once, sharp. "Yeah."
I take his hand. He lets me. That feels like the biggest victory of the night—not the kiss or the heat, but his hand in mine, like it isn't a weakness. Like it’s a choice.
I lead him down the hall, steady and unhurried.
When we reach the bedroom, he stops in the doorway, the atmosphere shifting.
He looks at my bed, the rumpled sheets, the dim lamp—and his jaw tightens.
I don't ask what’s going on in his head.
I just step back into his space and cup his face with both hands.
"Hey," I say softly. "You're here. That’s enough."
His eyes flicker. Not enough, they say. Too much.
I lean in and kiss him, slow and deep. His hands find my waist again, the grip tightening as he pulls me close.
His mouth moves down, dragging along my jaw and my throat, kissing the pulse there as if he were marking it.
I slide my hands under his hoodie, feeling the solid, tense muscle of his back, and tug the fabric up.
He lifts his arms without hesitation. The hoodie comes off, leaving him in a fitted black tee that shows off every bit of that contained intensity. I swallow hard.
"You're staring," he murmurs.
I huff a quiet laugh. "Can you blame me?"
He shakes his head once, almost annoyed, but his hands are already on the hem of my shirt. He doesn't ask; he just watches my face for a second, checking for any sign of doubt. I nod, and he pulls the shirt over my head, tossing it aside.
His gaze drags down my chest, slow and hungry, as if he’s memorizing the sight to prove it’s real. When his hands come up, his palms are warm against my skin. He touches me with a careful kind of greed—not grabbing, but feeling. Learning.
My breath catches as his mouth drops to my collarbone. He kisses it once, then again, his teeth scraping lightly just enough to make me shiver.
"Fuck," I exhale, my knees going weak.
Wes lifts his head, his eyes dark and burning. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," I breathe.
His mouth curves into something almost like a smile. "Good."
He kisses his way down my chest, slow and deliberate. His hands slide down my sides and around my waist, pulling me into his heat while his mouth keeps moving. It feels intimate in a way that makes my chest ache—not just horny, but…seen. I drag my fingers through his hair. "You're killing me."
"You're doing it to yourself," he huffs against my skin.
"That's not fair."
His mouth pauses just under my nipple, and he looks up at me, his gaze sharp enough to cut. "It's not supposed to be." Then he sucks lightly, his tongue flicking the peak, and I jerk, a sound slipping out of me that’s pure, unadulterated need.
His hand slides between my thighs and into my sweats.
Slow and intentional.
I choke back a breath as his fingers drift lower, tracing the sensitive skin behind my balls. They don’t hesitate, sliding right to the ring of muscle. I shudder as they circle, making my cock ache and thighs tremble. Then a single fingertip begins a slow and deliberate tease.
“Wes—”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me.
Then he presses in farther.
Not fast or rough. Just enough to make me feel it—stretching, grounding, real.
Wes’s eyes flash. He does it again, harder, and I curse as I grab his shoulders.
He lets me. He keeps going until my legs feel like lead and my cock aches with every heartbeat.
Finally, he stands, his palms pressing firmly to my hips.
He pushes me back slowly until my knees hit the edge of the mattress.
I sit. Wes stays standing between my legs, looking down at me like he’s trying not to devour me whole. I reach up and hook my fingers into the hem of his shirt, watching him, checking. His breathing stutters, and then he nods.
I pull the shirt up and off. I drag my hands over his chest, feeling the heat and the steady, heavy thrum of his heart. He catches my wrist, not to stop me, but to hold me there.
"You want this?" he asks, his jaw flexing.
"Yeah."
"Say it," he murmurs, his grip tightening.
I blink, my pulse kicking. "What?"
"Say you want me."
I licked my lips, the air in the room feeling thick as honey. "I want you."
His eyes darken like I’ve just lit a fuse. He leans down, kisses me once—slow and deep—then pulls back, his mouth hovering just over mine. "Then don’t make me do this alone."
The words hit like an electric shock. I nod, breathless. "I won't."
Wes’s hands slide to my sweatpants. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and pauses, his eyes locked on mine. I lift my hips, and he drags the fabric the rest of the way down. My cock springs free, hard and aching, and Wes’s throat works as his gaze drops to it. He swears under his breath.
"You okay?" I smirk, trying to inject a little levity into the suffocating tension.
His eyes snap back to mine. "No." Then, quieter: "You’re... a lot."
Heat floods my face. I want to joke, to deflect, but the look in his eyes tells me he doesn't mean it as an insult. He means it like a confession.
"You don’t have to handle me, Wes."
His jaw tightens as his hands slide up my thighs. "I want to," he says, and the certainty in his voice nearly breaks me.
He steps between my legs, bends and kisses my knee, moving higher with a slow, deliberate press of his mouth along my inner thigh. I suck in a breath, my fingers digging into the sheets as his hands spread my legs wider. He looks up at me again. "Still sure?"
"Yeah."
He doesn't smile. He just leans in and kisses me again before sliding his mouth back down my body. My breath catches as he kisses my lower stomach, then the sensitive skin of my hip. I grab his hair, just holding on as he moves closer. He pauses there, his breath hot against me, testing my reaction. I’m shaking.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says, his eyes finding mine.
"Don't stop."
His jaw clenches, and then he takes me into his mouth. He moves slow and deep, his tongue dragging in a way that makes my legs tremble. I grip the sheets until my knuckles go white. Wes pulls back just enough to breathe, his lips slick.
"Look at me," he commands.
My eyes snap to his. He watches my face as if he’s memorizing every crack in my control, every stutter in my breath. Then he goes back down, deeper this time, and I choke on a sound.
"Jesus," I pant.
He stays locked on me while he takes me, pulling back again to check my reaction. "You like that?"
"Yeah," I nod frantically.
He smirks and goes back to work, and my body reacts like it’s been waiting for that permission.
He’s using his hand now, slick and sure, stroking in perfect time with his mouth.
It’s filthy and controlled, and it has me tensing until I feel like I might snap.
My breath is coming in sharp, jagged pulls.
Wes stays steady. He doesn't tease; he just pulls me right to the ledge and keeps me there, trembling. My thighs shake. My voice breaks. "Wes... fuck... I'm close."
He looks up, his eyes dark and purposeful, and he doesn't slow down. He takes me deeper, his hand tightening, his mouth moving with a relentless focus. My whole body locks. I come with a strangled sound, my head tipping back as I spill, my chest heaving.
Wes doesn't pull away. He takes it, swallowing, keeping his hand moving through the aftershocks until my legs go weak and my grip on his hair turns desperate. Finally, he lets me go, his mouth sliding off slow, his eyes never leaving mine.
He sits back on his heels, his breath ragged. His mouth is wet, his jaw flexing as if he’s trying to process what just happened. His eyes are wrecked—not in a dramatic way, but in a real, raw way. Like he can't believe he’d wanted to do that.
I stare at him, dazed. "Holy shit. Come here."
He hesitates, his eyes dropping. I can see the retreat starting—the thought that he’s given, but hasn't taken, and that climbing onto the bed would mean he wanted something for himself.
"Wes," I say, lifting a hand. He snaps his gaze back to mine. I pat the mattress. "Get up here."
He stays still for one beat, then he moves. He climbs onto the bed, his shoulders tense as if he expects me to push him away. I sit up, grab his face, and kiss him—a slow, grounding kiss that tastes like the both of us.
He makes a low sound in his throat. I pull back just enough to whisper, "You're not the only one allowed to fall apart."
His eyes flash. He kisses me again, harder, as if those words are exactly what he needs to hear. His hands move to my hips, hooking into my waistband to tug my sweatpants the rest of the way off. He tosses them aside and pushes me back onto the bed.
I go willingly. Wes hovers over me, his body heavy and warm between my legs. His cock presses against my thigh, and the sheer heat of it makes my pulse kick. I reach down, sliding my hand between us, and palm him through his jeans.
Wes jerks, his breath catching. I grin into the kiss. "There you are."
He breaks the kiss, his eyes sharp. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't act like you know me," he growls.
I pause, meeting his gaze head-on. My voice goes soft. "I don't know you. Not all of you. But I know you want this."