twenty seven #3
He paused again. Then finally said, "It's strategic. That's all."
I studied his face, trying to gauge how much of that was rehearsed. How much he was holding back.
His hands slid higher, thumbs brushing slow over my ribs. "Doesn't matter who she is," he murmured. "You're my girlfriend. That's the only thing that's real."
My head snapped up. "You've never called me that before."
He met my gaze, eyes unflinching. "You are, though. You know that."
I didn't answer right away.
Because that word still did something to me. Even now.
And he knew it.
He leaned in just slightly, voice lower now. "This-" he gestured vaguely between us, "-this is the only part that matters."
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to.
And the worst part was...I already did.
I held his stare for another beat...then let myself exhale.
The tension between us didn't dissolve-it just shifted, sharp heat in place of the ache.
And then I slid my hand between us, pressing my palm to the hard ridge beneath his slacks.
His breath caught. "You're gonna kill me."
"Good," I murmured, mouth brushing his throat. "Die happy."
He tried to say something else, but I shifted my hips and rubbed him again, and whatever it was turned into a curse.
When I lifted my eyes to his, they were almost black with heat.
And I didn't stop.
I lifted my hands to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under my palms. His breath hitched when I leaned in, brushing my mouth over his in something that wasn't quite a kiss.
He didn't move. Didn't push.
So I let myself sink into it.
One hand trailed down, slipping between us, working open the button on his pants. His breath came out in a ragged exhale, heat flaring in the space between us.
I didn't look at him. Couldn't.
I shifted my hips back, just enough to drag the zipper down and push the fabric out of the way. He helped, lifting his hips so I could work them down over his thighs. The slide of him against the inside of my leg made me shiver.
I pressed my palm to the hard line of him through his briefs, just once, feeling the way his body tightened under my touch.
"Fuck." It slipped out low, wrecked, before he could swallow it.
I swallowed, too, my throat dry.
Without another word, I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and tugged the last barrier out of the way. He didn't try to help this time-just watched me with that raw, hungry look that made it impossible to think about anything but how much I wanted him.
When I shifted forward again, I dragged the tip of him through the slick heat between my thighs, teasing myself until my breath was coming in shaky little bursts.
His head fell back against the couch, jaw clenched tight.
"Amira." My name sounded like a warning.
I didn't answer.
I braced one hand on his chest, lifted my hips, and sank down onto him in one smooth, deliberate motion that made both of us gasp.
My hands curled into the fabric of his shirt, nails biting into his skin. I didn't give myself time to adjust. Didn't give either of us time to think.
I started to move.
Slow at first-long, unhurried rolls of my hips that made heat coil low in my belly. His hands slid up my thighs, fingers digging in like he didn't trust himself not to flip me over and take control.
But he didn't.
He let me set the pace.
I rocked down harder, grinding against him until his breath came out in a shudder. My head tipped back, a low moan breaking free when the friction hit exactly right.
One of his hands slid up, splaying over my ribs before tracing the underside of my breast. His thumb brushed over the tight peak, and my hips stuttered.
"Fuck-" His voice was rough, unraveling.
I didn't slow down.
I moved harder, chasing that sharp edge of pleasure that was already building too fast. Every slick slide of him inside me made my vision blur, heat flooding my skin.
He cursed again, low and helpless.
But I couldn't.
I was too far gone.
My hands braced against his shoulders as I rode him harder, every thrust sending a shockwave up my spine. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the quiet, mixing with my breathless little gasps.
His hand fisted in the hem of my slip, dragging it up so he could watch where we were joined. The filthy intimacy of it made my whole body shudder.
The pressure built higher, tighter-my body coiling around it. I ground down hard, and the sharp burst of pleasure stole the air from my lungs.
My orgasm hit in a sudden, blinding wave. My thighs locked around his hips, my breath tearing out in a choked cry as I pulsed around him.
He swore again, hands gripping my hips so tight it almost hurt. His own release followed, hips jerking up into me in one last, deep thrust.
I felt it-felt the warmth of it spill inside me, the way his body locked tight as he came.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
The only sound was our ragged breathing, the soft creak of the couch as I slowly collapsed against his chest.
His hands gentled, smoothing up and down my spine like he needed to ground himself.
I pressed my forehead to the curve of his neck, eyes fluttering shut as I tried to catch my breath.
And even though I knew none of this fixed anything, it was enough to make me feel like, just for tonight, he was mine.
Two weeks passed-soft, slow, mostly good.
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the heater kicking on. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes in dull, steady bursts.
I didn't mind it.
It was one of those nights that felt suspended in amber-soft, ordinary, the kind that didn't demand anything from me.
Brooks was in D.C., working. We'd talked that morning-just a quick call before his first meeting. He'd sounded tired, but happy. I'd told him I was proud of him.
Now, I was curled on the couch in one of his old shirts, hair up, an old movie playing on mute. A pile of paperwork for the salon sat on the coffee table-loan applications I hadn't touched all day.
I picked up my phone to check the time. Nearly nine.
Fine. Early enough to still feel like today could be productive.
I was just about to set it down when the group chat lit up.
A beat.
My stomach tensed.
I clicked the little icon to open the thread.
A link. Instagram.
For half a second, I almost didn't tap it.
Then I did.
The photo loaded slow-first a blur, then sharp.
Brooks in a white button up, one hand wrapped around the girls waist the other slightly holding her hand.
I scrolled down, heart knocking hard against my ribs.
The comments were worse.
My throat went dry.
A second ping.
I stared at the screen, my pulse thudding in my ears.
My thumb hovered over the screen. For a second, I almost called him. Almost typed something.
Instead, I locked the phone.
Set it face down on the coffee table.
And sat there, in the dark, trying to remember why I'd ever thought this would feel simple.