23. Chastity #2
My legs wrapped around him instinctively, body fitting against his like we'd done this a thousand times before instead of never.
He kissed me deeper. Harder. His breath ragged and hot against my cheek, chest heaving beneath my palms.
My fingers gripped his hoodie tight enough the fabric bunched in my fists. I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do anything except feel—the heat of his mouth, the strength in his hands, the way he held me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.
I whispered against his lips, barely recognizing my own voice. "Wyatt…"
He made a sound low in his throat—an actual growl that vibrated through his chest and straight into mine. His hands slid under the hem of my hoodie, palms warm and rough against the bare skin of my waist.
"You're killing me."
The words came out strained, broken, like they'd been dragged from somewhere deep he'd never meant anyone to reach.
I should have pulled back. Should have been terrified. Should have remembered all the reasons this was dangerous and reckless and completely insane.
His forehead dropped to mine.
He was trying to breathe. Trying not to cross a line. Trying not to lose control completely.
I felt the war raging inside him—restraint battling hunger, duty fighting want, every muscle in his body pulled taut with the effort of holding back.
"Chastity…" His voice came out rough, desperate. "If I keep going, I won't be able to stop."
I looked at him—really looked—seeing the darkness in his eyes, the hunger barely leashed, the warning written across every line of his face.
I should have been afraid. But all I felt was want so fierce it stole what little breath I had left.
I cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the bandage I'd just placed there with trembling fingers. And whispered the words that would change everything. "Maybe I don't want you to."
He cursed under his breath—low, filthy, devastating.
Then he pulled me in again.
Our mouths collided, desperate and searching and absolutely inevitable. His hands moved up my sides, mapping skin and curves with a reverence that felt like worship and possession tangled together until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
My body melted into his, soft where he was hard, yielding where he was demanding, wanting in ways I'd never let myself want before.
And he—
He let himself want me back.
No more pretending.
No more distance.
No more careful control.
Just heat and breath and need spiraling between us like gravity, pulling us together with a force neither of us could fight anymore.
For one long, devastating moment, we forgot everything—the revenge, the lies, the deal, the ticking clock counting down to the end of our arrangement.
There was only this.
Only us.
Only the truth we'd been running from since the moment our worlds collided.
His hands slid under my hoodie, fingers tracing the curve of my waist before gripping the hem. He pulled back just enough to look at me—really look—like he was waiting for permission, for hesitation, for any sign this wasn’t what I wanted.
I didn’t give him one.
I reached for the bottom of his hoodie and tugged.
He let me pull it over his head, muscles shifting beneath my palms as I explored the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of scars I’d only glimpsed before.
My fingers trembled against his skin, tracing the raised lines, the heat of him burning through my touch.
He made a sound low in his throat when I leaned in and pressed my lips to the scar above his collarbone.
His hands found the zipper of my hoodie, dragging it down with agonizing slowness, like he was unwrapping something precious.
The fabric fell open, and his breath hitched when he saw me—just a thin tank top beneath, no bra, nothing to hide the way my body reacted to him.
"Wyatt, I—"
"Shh." His voice was rough, his fingers brushing my cheek before sliding into my hair. "Don’t be shy. Not with me."
He guided me back against the couch cushions, following me down until I was beneath him, his body covering mine in a way that should have felt suffocating but only made me ache for more.
His mouth found my neck first, teeth grazing the sensitive skin before his lips pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone.
I arched into him without thinking, a gasp tearing from my throat when his hand slid under my tank top, calloused palms skimming up my ribs.
Then his mouth was on my breast, tongue swirling over my nipple through the fabric before he pulled the tank top down, baring me to him completely.
The first touch of his lips sent electricity racing through my veins, my back bowing off the couch when he sucked gently, then harder, marking me in a way that felt primal and possessive and absolutely devastating.
"Wyatt—" His name came out breathless, desperate.
He lifted his head just enough to meet my eyes, his own dark with hunger. "Tell me to stop."
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I reached for him instead, pulling him back down, my fingers tangling in his hair as his mouth claimed me again—kissing, sucking, leaving marks that would last long after this moment ended. Marks that would remind me, even when I tried to forget, that this had been real. That he had been real.
His hands slid down my body, fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings.
The air hit my skin as he dragged them off, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every inch he uncovered.
I should have been embarrassed—exposed like this, trembling beneath his gaze—but the way he looked at me, dark and hungry, made me feel powerful instead.
Then he was on his knees between my thighs, broad shoulders pressing my legs wider. The first touch of his mouth sent a jolt through me so sharp I gasped, fingers clutching the couch cushions. He groaned against me, low and rough, the vibration making my hips jerk.
"Fuck, you taste—" His voice was wrecked, hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise as his tongue dragged through me again. I whimpered, back arching off the couch, but he held me down, relentless. Every lick, every suck, every groan he made against my skin sent heat spiraling tighter inside me until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but feel.
His fingers dug into my hips, anchoring me as his mouth worked me over—slow, deep strokes that had my vision blurring at the edges. I was going to come apart. I was going to—
"Wyatt, I can't—" My voice broke, fingers tangling in his hair.
He growled, the sound vibrating through me. "Yes, you can." His tongue swirled, deliberate and devastating, and then his fingers joined, curling inside me just right—
I shattered.
Pleasure crashed over me in waves so intense my toes curled, my back bowed, a broken cry tearing from my throat. He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, drawing out every last tremor until I was boneless and breathless beneath him.
Only then did he lift his head, lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction. "Mine," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of my thigh before looking up at me. "Say it."
I couldn’t form words. Couldn’t think. Could only stare at him, dazed and wrecked and utterly his.
He crawled up my body, every movement controlled, predatory, deliberate. The weight of him settled over me—solid, overwhelming, real in a way that made my breath catch. Then I felt it—the hard length of him pressing against my thigh through his sweats, hot even through the thick fabric.
My pulse stuttered.
He braced himself on his forearms, caging me in, and for one heartbeat we just stared at each other. His chest heaved. Mine did too. The air between us felt charged, crackling with something that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.
Then his mouth crashed against mine.
The kiss was different this time—deeper, hungrier, tinged with desperation that felt like drowning.
I tasted myself on his lips, on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sent heat flooding through me all over again.
My hands found his shoulders, nails digging into muscle as I kissed him back with everything I had.
This wasn't performance. Wasn't strategy. Wasn't part of any plan either of us had made.
This was real. Terrifyingly, devastatingly real.
His hips rolled against mine and I gasped into his mouth, feeling him hard and wanting and barely restrained. My legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him closer even though there was nowhere left to go.
He groaned, the sound rumbling through his chest and into mine. "Chastity…"
My name on his lips sounded like a prayer. Like a curse. Like surrender.
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, seeing the question there—the last thread of control he was clinging to, the final chance he was giving me to walk away.
But I didn't want to walk away.
I'd crossed too many lines already. Felt too much. Wanted too much.
There was no going back now. Not from this moment. Not from him. Not from the truth we'd been running from since that first night in the garden when he'd zipped my dress and looked at me like I was something he wanted to ruin.
I cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the bandage I'd placed there with trembling fingers, and whispered the words that sealed my fate.
"Don't stop."