Chapter 25
I head to the guest room, my room now. I’m just reaching for the light switch when I feel it, warmth. A presence at my back, steady and charged.
The door locks shut softly behind me. A breath at my neck and his voice, low and velvet smooth, “Strip.”
I don’t turn around.
Instead, I let the silence do the heavy lifting as I slip out of my clothes, one layer at a time. My breath hitches, heart thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to match the tension behind me.
He stays close, barely touching, just present. A warm wall of breath and bare skin. His chest grazes my back, his sweatpants brushing the curve of my thighs, soft but anchoring.
By the time the last piece falls to the floor, his hands are already there, he slides my hair over my left shoulder, his lips curving around the right, one of his hands reaches up to grab my breast while the other ventures down .
Caden’s fingers part my lips, his middle finger grazing my wetness. His hand covers the gasp I let out as his other one suddenly pinches my clit. Just a little bit of pain makes the pleasure feel twice as good.
“Shh.” He whispers against my neck. His entire hand obscenely palms my pussy as he lifts me up, the pressure feeling incredible.
Sitting down on the bottom of the bed, he spreads his legs, mine trapped on the outside of his, as his hand returns to its erotic dance.
He plunges three fingers inside me while his thumb presses on my bundle of nerves and his pinkie rubs at my asshole. It feels unbearable.
Moans never make it past my lips as I detonate, biting on the back of my hand, his right hand pinches my nipple, while his left one is relentless. He doesn’t stop until I am boneless in his lap.
After catching my breath, I somehow summersault out of his lap and directly on my knees. He is still wearing the sweatpants and even through the bottoms, I can see the outline of his dick. Hard, leaking, I kiss the outline over his clothes as he moans and it’s my turn to whisper, “Shh.”
Smirking, I palm the band as he lifts his hips to help me get him naked.
His dick springs free and I finally understand the phrase “dick slapped.” It leaves a wet trail over my cheek.
Staring into his eyes, I palm the crown while he bites his lips to keep quiet.
Instead of giving attention to his dick, I go directly for the balls, rolling them between my lips, tonguing them in the middle.
He smells like soap and deodorant. I love a man with good hygiene.
I rub my hands up and down his dick until he mutters, “Please.” And just like that I take him…
deep. He hits the back of my throat. Gagging, I pull back until only his crown remains and lick it like the world’s best ice cream cone.
It’s not, but he deserves to feel like a treat.
I take his hand and put it on the back of my head and he takes over, pulling and pushing me on his dick. Just as he bites his lip, I take him deep into my mouth until I can’t anymore. The sound and feel of my gagging set him off, and he comes down my throat.
Afterward, the room feels different. Quieter, we’re both lost in our thoughts.
Caden lies beside me, propped on one elbow, his fingertips tracing idle patterns across my arm. Nothing overtly sexual, just touch for the sake of touch. Comfort. Presence. It feels like being memorized.
I roll toward him, one leg sliding between his, and press my forehead to his chest. His heartbeat is steady. Grounding. I didn’t realize how badly I needed that kind of steadiness until now.
“You good?” he asks, voice low and thick with affection.
I nod against his skin. “Yeah. I just… forgot what it feels like. To be touched like this. Not out of obligation or routine, but like someone actually sees me. ”
His hand stills over my back. “I see you,” he says. “Not just the polished version. The real you.”
I kiss him like I mean it, because I do. Because every cell in my body has been waiting for this, for him, and I’m not pretending otherwise anymore.
His hands slide over my hips, anchoring me to him like he can’t decide if he wants to hold me steady or pull me closer.
I’m not sure I’m giving him a choice. I’m already pressing into him like gravity has a personal vendetta.
My skin hums where he touches me, like his fingerprints are made of static and want.
Caden shifts beneath me, sitting up so we’re eye to eye, chest to chest. His hands frame my face and he kisses me again, slower this time, exploratory, like he’s savouring me. Like this isn’t some casual tryst, but something he's been waiting for. Hoping for.
“You’re dangerous,” I murmur against his mouth, a little breathless, a lot undone.
He grins, lips brushing mine. “Says the woman who kissed me first.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and press my forehead to his, heartbeat thudding in my throat. “If this ruins everything, I want it on record that it was worth it.”
He laughs softly, but there's something serious behind it, something tender. “It won’t ruin anything. Unless you ghost me after I make you breakfast. ”
“You already made me breakfast.”
“Then I guess you’re stuck with me.”
It’s that moment, when we’re still, caught between kiss and collapse, that I realize how much of myself I’ve been holding in. How long I’ve been waiting for someone who makes me feel safe and wanted. How long I’ve needed to feel like I could take up space and still be loved for it.
His hands slide down my back, fingers grazing skin, and I shiver. Not from the touch, but from what it means. Because it’s not just lust. It’s not even just chemistry. It’s recognition. Like his body and mine are having a conversation they’ve been rehearsing in dreams.
We fall back against the pillows together, breath tangled, lips searching.
Not rushed. Not frantic. Just here. The quiet of the room wraps around us like a cocoon, dim light spilling through the curtains, dusting everything with a soft silver glow.
His hand finds mine between the sheets, fingers brushing, then curling tight, like he's anchoring himself to me.
Each kiss is slow, deliberate, tasting of longing and relief. My mouth drifts across his jaw, down the curve of his neck, and I feel the way his breath hitches, the way his chest rises beneath mine. We don’t speak. There’s no need. Every sigh, every shiver is its own kind of language.
His hands trace the line of my back, a featherlight touch that makes my skin sing. When I move over him, slow and deliberate, our foreheads touch and his eyes lock on mine, wide and vulnerable. Like he’s never seen me more clearly. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single moment.
I ride him slowly, rolling my hips in a rhythm that matches the low, steady beat of our hearts.
The world fades into the hush of our breath, the creak of the bed, the occasional whisper of cotton as the sheets shift around us.
And when he pulls me down to him, arms around my waist, it’s not just to feel.
It’s to hold. To stay close. To be certain this is real.
Then, gently, he rolls us over, careful not to break our connection.
I’m beneath him now, legs wrapped around his hips, the blanket a tangled halo around our bodies.
He intertwines our fingers again, pressing them into the pillow above my head, and stares down at me with an intensity that takes my breath away.
His hair falls over his forehead, and I brush it back without thinking, like I’ve done it a thousand times.
We make love slowly, reverently, like we’re rediscovering each other one heartbeat at a time.
The air is thick with warmth and want and something softer, something like devotion.
Each thrust is unhurried, deep, deliberate.
My name leaves his lips in a whisper, and I answer with a sigh, arching into him, grounding myself in the heat of his skin, the pressure of his hands, the unflinching honesty in his eyes .
And when we finally come, it’s like something sacred, more breath than sound, more feeling than movement. A quiet, shared surrender.
After, he stays close, still inside me, his weight just enough to make me feel safe, held. The blanket slips further over us, and he tugs it up again, tucking us in.
I rest my head back against the pillow, feeling the weight of his head on my chest, and for the first time in months, maybe years, I don’t feel like I’m floating. I feel like I’m home.
We don’t talk about tomorrow. Or the risks. Or how complicated everything is.
Tonight isn’t for complications. It’s for this: tangled sheets, bare honesty, and the quiet promise of something we’re both terrified to want.
I don’t know where this is going. But I think, for the first time in a long time, I want to find out .