Chapter Eighteen Sunny
I wake not because of light—but because of silence.
The kind of silence that feels… watched.
My eyes open slowly, like I’m afraid reality will be worse than whatever dream tried to keep me asleep. But instead of cold tile or an unfamiliar couch—
I feel warmth.
A blanket tucked around me. A pillow beneath my cheek. And the faintest scent of cedar and something darker—him—still clinging to the air.
Dylan is sitting at the edge of the couch. Head bowed. Hands clasped. Elbows on knees.
Like he hasn’t moved all night.
Like he didn’t sleep. Like he refused to look away in case I disappeared again.
His voice is low when he finally says, “You’re awake.”
I nod. My throat is tight. “You… stayed.”
He looks at me—really looks. “Where else would I be?”
He says it like it’s obvious. Like there was never another possibility.
My heart aches.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For running. For making you come find me.”
His jaw flexes. “I’m not sorry. I’d do it every damn time.”
I sit up, blanket still around my shoulders. He watches the motion—the vulnerability—like he’s studying something precious.
“I don’t want to be someone you have to rescue,” I say softly.
His voice is thunder quieted to a storm’s edge. “You’re not. You’re someone I choose to go after.”
That sentence lands like a weight in my chest—heavy, solid, anchoring.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
“It wasn’t you who broke,” he says. “It was the world that failed you. He failed you. I won’t.”
I exhale—shaky—because I want to believe him. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
“Come here,” he whispers.
I go.
I don’t know who leans first—him or me—but my body finds his like it remembers something my mind forgot.
I slide into his lap slowly, testing, waiting for fear to come.
It doesn’t.
His hands hover at my hips—not holding, just waiting. Letting me choose.
And that—more than any protection, any rage, any vow—is what undoes me.
“I don’t want to be afraid anymore,” I whisper.
His breath touches my mouth. “Then don’t be.”
My fingers lift to his collar—trembling, but not from fear.
“I want this,” I say.
I expect him to hesitate. To pull away. To shield me from myself.
Instead—he closes his eyes like those words are prayer.
“Sunny…” His voice is gravel and devotion.
He opens his eyes again.
“I need to hear you say you want me. Not comfort. Not escape. Me.”
The world falls away.
“I want you,” I say.
His restraint burns at the edges. He is a wildfire barely held behind glass.
“And if we cross this line,” he warns, “I won’t pretend. I won’t call it fake. I won’t let you go when the world stops watching.”
Something inside me lifts its head—hopeful. Hungry. Alive.
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
And Then—
His mouth meets mine.
Slow. Certain. A claiming without force.
Time dissolves.
Hands. Heat. Breath. Need.
Clothing. Skin. Trust.
Every memory I have of being touched before—of flinching, freezing, folding—falls away like dead leaves.
What grows instead is new.
What grows is mine.
The distance vanished.
His mouth met mine, slow and certain, a claiming without force.
I shivered—not from fear, but from raw, bright need.
His lips trailed down my neck, breath blazing across my collarbone until he paused just above the curve of my breast.
“You’re mine now,” he growled, a promise rather than a threat, and the words raced straight to my core.
My fingers found the bare plane of his chest.
Lean muscle rippled beneath my palms, warm marble made human.
I traced the narrow line of hair descending from his navel and leaned in, pressing kisses over his heart just to feel its wild drum against my mouth.
The rhythm said I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, and the gift of that certainty made me bold.
Dylan’s hands slid to the backs of my thighs.
In one fluid motion he lifted me, fitting my legs around his hips.
His weight settled over me—comfort, not cage.
When he kissed me again, it was hungrier, deeper, his tongue stroking mine until every flick felt like a question I’d waited years to answer.
“Tell me again,” he rasped, nipping my lower lip. “Say it.”
Breath tangled in my throat, I combed fingers through his thick hair. “I want you.”
Desperation cracked the last word, and something triumphant flashed in his eyes, a flare lighting the way.
He knelt back long enough to unclasp my bra and peel it away.
Cool air tightened my nipples just before his mouth closed over one peak, tongue swirling slow, lavish circles. I arched, a strangled whimper escaping. His hand cupped my other breast, thumb mirroring the tease until sparks snapped beneath my skin.
Need pooled low and slick; I shifted restlessly beneath him.
Dylan kissed downward, drifting over ribs, over the quivering plane of my stomach, until he reached the lace edge of my panties.
He hooked his fingers under the thin band, drawing the fabric off my legs with deliberate care, the glide of cotton over skin unbearably sensual for all its gentleness.
Naked, exposed, I should have felt panic—but I felt reverence, his gaze stroking every inch of me like a painter memorizing dawn.
He parted my thighs and settled between them, shoulders widening the space until I felt completely, exquisitely open.
The first slow lick dragged a cry from my throat; he tasted me as though we had forever and a minute, savoring every fold.
His tongue traced my seam, dipping inside to gather the wetness already spilling for him, then slid upward to flick my swollen clit with wicked precision.
My hips lifted toward his mouth, chasing, begging.
He slipped two fingers into my snug heat, curling upward in a come-here motion that made my spine bow off the mattress.
“Dylan,” I gasped, voice breaking, toes digging into the quilt.
He rose, licking my arousal from his lips, a sight so erotic my inner muscles fluttered emptily around nothing.
Unsnapping his trousers, he freed himself, and for a heartbeat I only looked: thick, flushed, heavy in his grip.
Need throbbed through me, a pulse that felt bigger than my body.
“Say it again,” he ordered, voice gravel wrapped in velvet.
“I want you.” The confession poured out, molten.
He braced over me, forearms caging my head, his tip nudging my entrance.
Then he pushed, slow and relentless, each inch stretching, claiming, filling me completely.
My breath fractured; my walls fluttered, adjusting to the delicious burn.
When he bottomed out, we both exhaled—relief, awe, recognition.
He waited until I let go of his biceps, then moved, hips rolling in a steady glide that painted sparks across every inner nerve.
The headboard creaked softly, metronome to our hushed pants.
He angled slightly, tilting my hips, and suddenly he was stroking that secret spot that lived only in rumor and daydream—until now.
Pleasure coiled tighter, deeper, promising interruption to thought itself.
My thighs tightened around his waist; my fingers raked the strong curve of his back.
“So perfect; you feel like you were made for me,” he grated, mouth searing the shell of my ear.
The words, crude and tender at once, snapped something inside.
My release unfurled with no chance of retraction, a white bloom behind my eyes as I cried out, clenching rhythmically around his cock.
He rode the spasms, thrusts turning rough, feral, until he slammed deep and stilled, groaning my name as he spilled in long, hot waves.
We collapsed together, a tangle of breath and sweat.
My pulse thundered in my ears; his matched the tempo at the base of my throat where he nestled.
Eventually he eased out, rolling and gathering me against his chest so we lay face-to-face, knees tangled, sharing the same breath.
His hand settled along my spine, thumb tracing idle circles, mapping but not trapping.
I listened to the wind press softly against the windowpane, felt the fortress of his warmth, and realized I had no need to count exits or rehearse apologies.
I lie against him afterward—breathing, not breaking.
His arm is around me, fingers tracing slow circles against my shoulder. Not claiming. Not caging. Just… staying.
“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” I whisper.
His voice is low against my hair. “Like what?”
“Like choosing myself,” I say. “And not being punished for it.”
His breath stutters.
“You were never meant to be punished for existing,” he says quietly.
The words are too gentle. They hurt. But in a way that feels like healing ripping old wounds open so they can close right.
I close my eyes.
For the first time in years—I sleep without fear.
When I wake, he’s still there.
Not watching. Just breathing beside me.
Like we’re… normal. Like this is what mornings could look like.
But reality crashes back in with a phone vibrating against the nightstand.
He reaches first. Looks at the screen. His expression hardens.
“What is it?” I ask—still groggy, still wrapped in his warmth.
He turns the phone so I can read the headline:
brEAKING — SECRET WEDDING NIGHT EXPOSED “Dylan Knight and Fiancée Spend Intimate Night in Vegas Suite”
Anonymous source claims “it wasn’t fake.”
My stomach drops.
The world found out.
Our private moment—our first moment—is about to become everyone’s story.