Chapter 13
Kennedy
The world dissolved into shadows and heat as we moved toward the bed, our steps unsteady but guided by something deeper than desire.
Nick’s hands gripped my waist like I might vanish if he let go.
There was a reverence in every touch, like he wasn’t just laying me down, but anchoring me to something real. Something sacred.
The sheets were cool beneath me, a delicate contrast to the warmth rolling off his skin.
He didn’t hurry. There was no rush in him—only intent.
His fingers brushed across my stomach with a kind of quiet awe, then curved gently around my hips, as though learning the shape of me was the most important thing he’d ever do.
My breath caught as his mouth followed—warm, patient kisses down the line of my body. My pulse beat louder with each one. His lips weren’t demanding. They asked. They promised.
When he reached the side of my neck and sucked gently, a tremor worked its way through me.
My legs parted before I realized I’d moved, guided more by instinct than thought.
Everything else fell away—every fear, every lingering doubt.
There was just this: Nick, the bed, and the way he looked at me like I was a secret he intended to keep forever.
“Are you okay?” he whispered, lips still grazing my skin.
I opened my eyes and found his waiting—dark, fierce, but soft just for me. There was no pressure in them. No demand. Just a quiet storm held at bay by my answer.
“I want this,” I said, and it wasn’t shaky. It wasn’t uncertain. “I want you.”
He exhaled slowly, and I felt it as much as heard it. A shift. A permission. A vow.
His mouth returned to my chest, kissing lower this time—slow and almost unbearably tender, like each inch of me deserved worship before he moved on.
I arched toward him, the need building slowly but no less consuming for it.
His lips danced over my ribs, down the center of my stomach, skimming the edge of lace like it was a boundary to be crossed only with devotion.
My hands found his hair, threading through it as he kissed the spot just above my hip. The intimacy of it nearly undid me. I wasn’t used to being seen like this—touched like I mattered. But he did. He saw me. Not just my body, but everything inside it too.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against my skin, the vibration making my toes curl.
I swallowed, my voice barely more than a whisper when it came—but steady. Certain.
“You,” I said. “All of you. Just… like this.”
And as I looked down at him, kneeling between my legs like I was something holy, I realized the truth wasn't in the fire building between us, but in the way he held me like I wasn’t just a choice. I was his choice.
And God, I wanted to be.
“I want you to take your time,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them. They felt equal parts bold and breakable—an offering laid bare between us.
His gaze lifted to mine, and something in it shifted. The heat was still there, fierce and all-consuming, but it deepened into something more. Something that settled low in my belly and bloomed outward like a flame licking through every nerve.
“Then that’s exactly what I’ll do,” he said, voice rough with promise.
His hands drifted lower, one gliding over the curve of my thigh, the other sweeping along the arch of my spine like he was committing every inch of me to memory.
He kissed his way down with deliberate slowness, lips grazing skin that felt suddenly too sensitive to bear.
There was no rush. No frantic fumbling. Just reverence—like I was something sacred, and he was the only one allowed to touch.
Each kiss left fire in its wake, and I couldn’t stop the way my breath stuttered or how my body arched toward him, greedy for more. I felt… adored. Not just wanted, but cherished. It was a feeling so unfamiliar it nearly unraveled me.
My fingers sank into his hair, anchoring him to me, afraid that if I let go even for a moment, the whole world would tilt and I’d lose this—lose him.
He lingered at the edge of where lace met skin, his mouth hovering like a question he already knew the answer to. The anticipation was maddening, electrifying. I gasped softly, my heart pounding, the air between us charged with a tension that bordered on holy.
And when he finally slipped past that final barrier—when our bodies met in a slow, devastating fusion—it didn’t feel like giving in.
It felt like coming home.
My eyes fluttered shut, not because I wanted to escape it, but because it was too much to contain. His touch. His breath. The way he moved with purpose, with me, not against me.
The world beyond those four walls fell away. There was only this room, this bed, this man who held me like I was made of myth and wonder and fragility all at once. Every heartbeat pulsed louder than the last, and somewhere in the haze of skin and sensation, I realized this wasn’t just about desire.
It was a rewriting.
A quiet revolution written in sweat and skin and the echo of his name on my lips.
And when I looked up and saw the way he looked at me—like I was his reason—I knew.
This was where everything changed.
His fingers slipped beneath the last scrap of lace between us, and my breath caught—sharp and shallow.
I arched into him without thinking, my body moving before my mind could catch up.
His touch was sure but unhurried, like he wasn’t here to take, only to worship.
There was no rush. No pressure. Just the steady, reverent way his fingers explored me—like I was something sacred, not something to conquer.
When his thumb brushed over my clit, a soft moan slipped from my lips before I could stop it. My cheeks flushed with heat, but he didn’t tease or smirk. He didn’t push further.
Instead, he just kept going—gentle, patient, almost reverent in the way he coaxed pleasure from my body.
It wasn’t about him.
It was about me.
He wanted me to feel—to unravel, to let go, to trust.
And as his fingers worked in slow, maddening circles, I did. I melted into him, into this moment where nothing was expected and everything was offered.
Here, in his hands, I wasn’t nervous anymore. I was wanted. Worshipped.
And slowly, I started to believe I deserved it.
I trembled beneath his touch, every slow stroke unraveling me from the inside out. The tension that had coiled tight in my chest for days began to melt, replaced by something warm and consuming. Here, in the hush of his hands, I felt seen—like I wasn’t just his, I was home.
Nick moved with purpose, but never rushed.
Every sweep of his fingers felt like a vow he didn’t need to speak.
I arched into him, breath hitching as heat built low in my belly, spreading outward like wildfire.
My body responded before my mind could catch up—every nerve lit, every breath caught in the back of my throat.
“Nick,” I whispered, barely a sound.
He looked up, and the way he stared at me made my heart clench. That gaze—intense, possessive, but so full of something more. Something that wrapped around me like a promise I never knew I’d been waiting for.
“There you go,” he murmured against my skin, voice low and rough. “Such a good wife.”
And somehow, those words didn’t feel like a cage.
They felt like a claim I wanted—needed. They didn’t trap me; they anchored me. I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, but he understood.
He kissed his way down my body, slow and reverent. Every press of his mouth sent another shiver through me. He wasn’t just touching my body—he was reaching for something buried deeper. Something tender and terrified and ready.
When his lips brushed just below my navel, I gasped, fingers threading through his hair in a silent plea.
“Nick…” His name fell from my lips like a prayer.
He paused, eyes finding mine again—dark and burning. “Tell me what you need,” he said gently.
I swallowed, pulse hammering in my throat. “I need… more.”
A slow smile tugged at his lips—knowing, wicked, and soft all at once. He kissed my hip, then slid back up until his face hovered over mine again. “You’ll have it.”
And then he kissed me—deep, searching, like he wanted to taste the very center of who I was. His hands roamed, not with hunger but with hunger and awe. He traced me like he wanted to memorize every inch, every reaction. I let him. I gave him everything.
Because in that moment, nothing else existed.
Not the fear. Not the past. Not even the future.
Just the way we held each other like we’d been waiting a lifetime to do it right.
My breath hitched as Nick’s tongue slid against my slit, moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. The sensation was electric, each stroke sending ripples of pleasure through me. I gasped, fingers tightening in his hair as he explored me with an intimacy that left me trembling.
“Nick,” I whispered, the sound barely more than a breath. His name tasted like a promise on my tongue—a promise that this was real, that he was real, and that everything I felt in this moment was more than just desire.
He didn’t rush. Every movement was measured, precise, as if he were learning every inch of me through touch alone.
His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open for him, and the way he anchored me made my pulse race.
The heat of his mouth, the pressure of his tongue—it all blended into a symphony of sensations that left me breathless.
I arched against him, hips moving instinctively to meet his rhythm.
The world outside faded away, leaving only the steady rise and fall of my breath and the intoxicating way he worshipped me with every flick of his tongue.
I could feel the tension building low in my belly, coiling tighter with each passing second.
“Please,” I gasped, not even sure what I was asking for—more? Faster? It didn’t matter. All I knew was that I needed him like I needed air.