Chapter 8 #2
His hoodie’s off, and his tee’s shoved up around his ribs.
My sweats are hanging low on my hips, and all I feel is heat—his skin, his mouth, his breathy moans in my ear every time we grind together.
We’ve done this before, touched and kissed and gotten each other off more times than I can count.
But this? This feels different. This is six weeks of missing and texting and not touching.
Of late-night calls with hands shoved under blankets while whispering, “I wish you were here.”
Now he is here. And I’m not wasting a second.
He’s hard against me, shifting his hips in just the right way. I press down, and he gasps, throwing his head back as his back arches off the bed.
“Caden—God—don’t stop,” he pants.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
We’re not going to go all the way tonight—not yet. We talked about it, agreed we’d know when it was right. But that doesn’t mean we’re holding back. Not when we’re both this desperate. Not when every kiss feels like catching fire.
I push my hand down between us, palming him through his boxers. He lets out this needy, broken sound that makes my pulse spike. I love making him come apart like this—love knowing exactly how to touch him to get him there.
He bucks up into my hand, grinding back hard. “You’re the worst,” he mutters, voice wrecked.
“You like it,” I say, nipping his jaw.
“Shut up and—ahh—keep going.”
I do.
My hand slides beneath the fabric, fingers curving around the heat of him.
He’s already throbbing in my palm, impossibly hard and twitching with anticipation.
I stroke him slow at first—lazy, teasing—just to feel the way his breath catches.
His hips jerk up involuntarily, a sharp gasp punching from his chest, and then he lets out a sound that’s more moan than breath, raw and aching.
His eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling. His lips part, full and kiss-bitten, and when I tighten my grip slightly, he groans loudly. I don’t care. Let the whole building hear him. Let the walls hold that sound forever.
No one’s here. No one matters but him.
“You’re so hot like this,” I whisper again, leaning closer, pressing a kiss just under his jaw. His fast pulse thrums erratically there. “I missed watching you fall apart.”
His laughter is short and breathless, breaking on a gasp when I drag my thumb across the head of his cock. He bucks into my hand, his muscles pulling tight like a bowstring.
“You’re—mmh—unbelievable,” he grits out, one hand fisting the sheets, the other gripping my shoulder so hard it’s almost bruising.
I grin against his throat, teeth grazing skin. “You started it. Turning eighteen and showing up looking like that? What’d you expect me to do?”
He gasps out a shaky laugh, then moans as I quicken the rhythm. “Self-control?”
“Wrong guy,” I mutter, breath hot against his neck.
His body is trembling now, a sheen of sweat shimmering on his chest, catching the dim light of the dorm.
His thighs tense on either side of mine, and I can feel the shudder working its way up his spine.
The way he moves—desperate and instinctive—sets fire to my blood.
I know this body. I know every gasp, every twitch, every tell.
“Caden—shit—don’t stop, don’t—”
“I’ve got you,” I promise, kissing the hollow of his throat. “Let go for me.”
He does.
With a low, fractured cry, he arches up, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent gasp as he unravels in my hand.
His whole body tightens, then shakes as he comes, warmth spilling over my fingers.
I keep stroking him through it—gentle now, coaxing, comforting—while watching every flicker of feeling race across his face like a storm breaking over open sky.
He’s beautiful like this. Wrecked, undone, but still soft around the edges. Vulnerable in a way only I get to see.
As his breathing slows and his body goes slack, he opens his eyes, blinking up at me like he’s not sure what planet we’re on. And I swear, nothing has ever made me feel more right than that look.
When he finally slumps back into the sheets, chest heaving, I grin and kiss his temple. “Welcome to Kentucky.”
He groans. “You’re so smug.”
I press my non-sticky hand to my heart. “With reason.”
Theo rolls onto his side, breath still hitching, skin flushed and warm while I grab some tissues and wipe my palm. His eyes are hazy but locked on me, and the soft, lopsided smile he gives me sends heat spiraling through my chest.
“Your turn,” he says, voice rough with satisfaction and something tenderer underneath.
I blink, my throat suddenly dry. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” His voice leaves no room for argument. He’s already shifting closer, warm fingers finding the waistband of my sweats with steady certainty. “I need to.”
And the second his hand slips beneath the fabric and wraps around me, all the teasing, all the posturing I might’ve thrown in, it disappears. Gone. Blown clean away by the feel of him, of Theo, touching me like he knows exactly how I fall apart. Because he does.
Because it’s him.
My whole body jerks, hips rising instinctively into his palm, and I bury my forehead against his shoulder, trying to catch my breath. My hand curls at the base of his spine as he starts to move—slow at first, maddeningly slow, dragging every drop of pleasure out like he’s savoring it.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I can’t even speak. I just nod, eyes squeezed shut, my entire nervous system tuned to his hand, his breath, his warmth against me.
His other hand trails up my back, fingers splaying out between my shoulder blades to hold me steady as he finds a rhythm. My body arches into his, chasing every motion. I’m panting now, every breath a ragged prayer, every nerve lit up like a live wire.
Theo leans in, presses his lips to my jaw, whispering, “You feel so good like this.”
I release a deep, raw moan into his neck, my hand fisting in the sheets beside him.
He keeps going, steady and unrelenting. I feel the shift as he tightens his grip, the slick slide of skin, the unbearable heat building inside me.
We don’t say much—just gasps, broken moans, and whispered curses.
His name is on my lips like it belongs there, over and over, tangled with please and God and don’t stop.
My whole body tenses. “Theo—” I manage, voice cracking.
“I’ve got you,” he breathes, mouth close to my ear. He throws my words back me. “Let go.”
And I do.
I come hard, my body jolting with each wave, his name the only thing I know how to say. He strokes me through it, soft and slow, until the shaking stops and all I can do is cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the world.
And right now, he is.
Afterward, we lie here tangled up, sticky and half dressed, grinning like idiots. We don’t untangle for a while. Eventually, we clean up—quick wipes, fumbling grins, kisses in between—and collapse back into bed under the blanket, limbs a mess of heat and skin.
I tuck my chin over his shoulder, my fingers tracing lazy patterns on his stomach. “I’m never letting you go six weeks again,” I murmur.
“Next time,” he says, yawning, “I’m kidnapping you.”
I smile against his skin. “Deal.”
We lie here a while longer, curled together on my narrow twin bed. The window’s cracked, the breeze carrying in the sound of people outside—shouts, laughter, someone playing music too loud.
But in here, it’s just us. Warm, close, steady.
Theo traces lazy circles on my back. “I’ve been dreaming about this,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
“Me too.”
There’s a beat, and then he shifts under me to look at me properly. “I don’t want to go home on Sunday.”
I kiss the tip of his nose. “Then let’s not think about it yet.”
He closes his eyes and breathes deep, like he’s trying to soak this all in.
“Happy birthday, Theo,” I whisper again.
“Best one yet.” His smile is slow, sleepy, and everything.