Chapter Nine #2
I reach for his shirt, fumbling with the remaining buttons, desperate to get him naked.
He laughs, low and dangerous, and helps me out, shedding his flannel and undershirt in record time.
He’s even better shirtless. Broad shoulders, muscular chest thickly dusted with dark hair shot through with silver, abs flexing with every shaky breath.
I rake my nails down his back, savoring the heat and strength of him.
“You know you’re ridiculous, right?” I tease, letting my hands wander lazily over every inch of exposed skin. “No one should be allowed to look this good at our age.”
“Neither should you,” he fires back, grinning. He kisses me again, softer this time, almost tender. His hands rest on my hips, thumbs stroking gentle circles. For a second, everything slows. We just look at each other, catching our breath. There’s so much want in his eyes it’s almost frightening.
“I mean it, Mase,” he says, his voice shaking. “You’re everything I ever wanted. Everything.”
The casual use of the nickname he used to use, the name only Miles has ever called me, ruins me.
I’m gone, done for. Any last resistance or hesitation I had about this thing between us shatters at the sound of that name and the absolute adoration in his voice.
I want to make a joke, but it sticks in my throat.
Instead, I pull him down and kiss him again, pouring everything I can’t say into it.
Then it’s a rush. My hands scramble at his jeans, shoving them down far enough to free him.
He’s thick and flushed, and I lick my lips, unable to resist. I lean down, tongue flicking over him, tasting him.
He shudders, a hand fisting in my hair. “God, you’re gonna kill me.”
“Hope so,” I whisper, then take him in, slow and deep. He lets out a broken moan, hips jerking. I find a rhythm, bobbing my head, using my mouth, and every trick I remember from years ago.
He lasts barely a minute before he’s dragging me off him, eyes wild. “You keep that up, I’m not gonna last.”
I smirk, wiping my mouth. “That’s the point.”
He shakes his head, grinning like a lunatic, and flips me so I’m sprawled across the couch, ass in the air, legs dangling over the arm.
The padding bites into my hips, but I barely notice.
I hear the tear of a condom wrapper, then the slick sound of lube.
Fingers slide between my cheeks, circling and teasing.
“Is this what you want?” he breathes, his voice gone rough. “You want me to take you right here?”
I arch back, words gone. All I can do is nod.
He pushes in a finger, then another, working me open.
It burns, but I love it. I love the way he handles me, careful but relentless.
I grind back onto his hand, needy. He lines up, the pressure making my whole body tense with anticipation.
There’s a beat, a question hanging between us.
“You ready?” he asks, breath hot on my neck.
“Don’t make me beg,” I growl, pushing back against him.
“You sure?” he murmurs against my shoulder, barely containing a laugh.
I arch back harder, grinding against him. “If you ask me that again, I’ll tie you to the radiator and have my way with you.”
He laughs, completely wrecked. “Promise?”
I just groan, reaching back to cup his cock in my palm, guiding him to where I want him most. He’s slick, already pressing against me, and the anticipation makes me dizzy.
He laughs again, then slides in, slow and steady. It’s a stretch, intense, right on the edge of too much, but I want it. I want every inch. The sound he makes when he bottoms out is pure filth, a guttural moan that echoes in my chest.
“God, Mase,” he groans. “You feel fucking unreal.”
I arch my back, angling for more. “Then fuck me like you mean it.”
He pulls out, then thrusts back in, finding a rhythm that’s deep and perfect.
The angle is obscene, each snap of his hips hitting my prostate dead-on.
I grip the edge of the couch, knuckles white, fighting the urge to come apart completely.
Miles fucks me like he means it, all power and focus, like the rest of the world has narrowed down to just this.
The sound of skin slapping, our mingled groans, the creak of the couch, it’s everything.
He leans down, one hand gripping my shoulder, the other braced on my hip to hold me steady. He bites at my opposite shoulder, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You look so fucking good like this,” he pants. “Bent over for me. You’re perfect, May. So fucking perfect.”
I can’t form words. All I can do is push back into him, desperate for more, for everything.
He obliges, picking up the pace, slamming into me hard enough to rattle the entire sofa. My cock drags across the upholstery, leaking pre-come, the friction sending sparks up my spine.
“Touch yourself,” he grits out. “I want to see you come for me.”
I wrap a hand around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.
I’m already so close it’s embarrassing. He wraps an arm around my chest, hauling me upright until my back is flush to his, his cock still buried inside me.
He drives up into me, using his height and strength to move me exactly how he wants.
He murmurs in my ear, all filth and praise. “That’s it, Mase. Take it. You’re so good for me. Can you feel how hard you make me? How much I want you?”
It undoes me. My orgasm hits, blinding and sharp.
I cry out, spilling over my hand and the couch.
My body clenches around him, milking his cock, and he loses it, pounding into me with frantic, desperate thrusts.
He comes with a shout, hips jerking, face buried in my neck.
I feel the heat of it, the way his whole body shudders against mine.
For a while, we stay like that, tangled and shaking, sweat cooling on our skin.
Finally, Miles pulls out, hands gentle as he helps me collapse onto the cushions. He disposes of the condom, then returns with a damp washcloth, cleaning me up with infinite care. “You okay?” he asks, kissing the back of my neck.
I let out a breathless laugh, still boneless, still buzzing everywhere. “I’m fucking fantastic,” I manage, my voice rough. “Pretty sure you just realigned my spine.”
He grins. God, he looks smug. I want to smack him. Or kiss him for a week straight. Preferably both.
Miles lifts me into his strong arms again and carries us the few steps to the bed.
He sets me down gently, and we pull back the covers before crawling in.
He tucks me close, arms wrapped around me, his lips never far from my skin.
His hand finds my jaw, thumb stroking along my cheekbone.
I lean into the touch, greedy for every scrap of affection he offers.
“That was…” I trail off, searching for a word that doesn’t exist. I settle for, “Jesus, Dalton.”
He laughs, low and pleased, his voice all gravel and honey as he nuzzles my neck. “You really are perfect, you know that?”
I roll my eyes, but my heart is a pile of glitter on the carpet. “If you keep talking like that, I won’t leave tonight.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth, impossibly soft. “Who says I want you to?”
I’ve never felt safer, or more wanted, than I do in this moment, cocooned in the arms of the man who broke my heart and then, somehow, figured out how to put it back together stronger than before.
I close my eyes, letting it all soak in. The warmth of his body, the hush of the snow outside, the way the house still smells like roast chicken and cinnamon and something that feels almost embarrassingly like hope.
Maybe that’s what this is. Not a fairytale ending. Not perfect. But real. Earned. Ours.
I curl tighter into his embrace, already dizzy at the thought of every morning and every messy, beautiful night to come.
“Hey, Dalton?” I murmur, tracing lazy circles on his forearm.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ever let go.”
He squeezes me like he means it, his voice thick. “Never.”
And for the first time in forever, I actually believe it.