Chapter 117
Chapter One Hundred Seventeen
Roderick
I kiss her like she’s oxygen, like I’ve been suffocating for years and this is the first breath that doesn’t hurt.
And when she moans into me—fuck, I lose it.
I grip her tighter, hips flush to hers, and she trembles in my hands. Every inch of me screams to go slower, savor this, and make it last. But I’m not built for patience where she’s concerned. Not after years of wanting, of not knowing if I’d ever get to touch her again.
I break the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Let’s go to my bedroom—unless you want us to stop.”
She nods, eyes wide and glassy, lips red and swollen from mine. I grab her hand, lacing our fingers like it means something—because it fucking does—and I pull her with me down the hall, past the life I’ve been pretending to live without her.
My bedroom door shuts behind us with a soft, weighted click.
And for a second, I just look at her.
I want to remember this. The way she’s standing there, chest rising and falling, her fingers twitching like she doesn’t know what to do with all the feelings running through her. Neither do I. I just know I can’t not touch her.
Not now. Not when she’s here. Not when I’ve been haunted by every version of her I’ve imagined and never thought I’d get again.
I step closer and lift the hem of her shirt. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” I insist.
She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t speak. Just raises her arms so I can pull it over her head. My hands skim her skin, slow and reverent, like she’s something sacred I forgot how to worship.
Her bra is lacy and soft and goddamn perfect. I drag my fingers down the strap along her shoulder, then across her collarbone, dipping low to the swell of her breast. She shivers.
“Tell me to stop,” I rasp, throat wrecked with need.
She doesn’t.
Her hands find my hips, fingers slipping under my shirt, and I swear I see stars. She pushes it up, and I help her, yanking it off, needing her skin on mine like a prayer I’m afraid I’ll never get to say again.
I drop my lips to her shoulder. Then her neck. Then lower.
Every inch of her gets a kiss. A stroke of my mouth. A promise sealed in heat and desperation. It’s not just lust—it’s possession. Worship. A mark that says: you’re here, and I’m not fucking letting go this time.
I reach behind her, fingers finding the clasp of her bra, and when it comes undone, I let the straps fall like unraveling threads. The lace slips down her arms, and I watch it drop to the floor like it’s a goddamn sacrament.
My breath catches.
She’s more beautiful than I remembered.
I groan as I take in the soft swell of her breasts, the dusky tips already tight and begging. And I’m done being gentle.
I dip my head and wrap my lips around one perfect nipple, sucking slow and deep until she arches with a gasp that punches straight through my spine. Her fingers sink into my hair, tugging, anchoring me there like she needs this as badly as I do.
“Yes, Roderick,” she breathes, hips shifting against mine.
I grin against her skin and drag my tongue across to the other, licking a slow, maddening circle around it without touching the center—just to hear her whimper. Just to feel her body twist beneath mine, begging for more.
“You still like this,” I murmur, voice low, teasing. I run the flat of my tongue over her nipple, then flick it with the tip—once, twice, a slow torment. “Still love it when I play with you, don’t you?”
Her only answer is another gasp—higher, tighter.
I suck again, this time harder. Then graze my teeth over her just enough to make her body jerk, her thighs clench around me. I palm both breasts, kneading, circling her nipples with my thumbs while my mouth keeps working her into something desperate.
“You’re so fucking sensitive,” I whisper. “I could spend all night here, making you come just from this.”
She moans, breath shuddering. Her nails rake down my back, and I can feel how close she is to unraveling—just from my mouth on her chest, just from my voice coaxing every needy sound from her lips.
And I’m not even inside her yet.
“God, I missed you,” I whisper against her skin. “I missed this.”
She cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and her voice cracks when she says, “Then take me. All of me.”
I groan.
I drop to my knees in front of her, pressing my lips to her belly, the waistband of her jeans, the button I undo with my teeth because I can’t help myself. She laughs—soft, breathless—and I swear it’s the first sound that’s felt like sunlight in years.
I tug the denim down her legs after taking off her shoes, and intentional, and she steps out of them like she’s shedding every piece of distance between us. Then she’s standing in nothing but black lace panties and nerves and need.
I rise again, cupping her face, kissing her like I’ll never get enough—because I won’t.
My fingers dip under the edge of the lace, teasing her, feeling how soaked she is already.
“Fuck, Kit,” I breathe. “You’re killing me.”
She leans in, lips grazing mine, her voice a whisper of heat and recklessness. “Then die with me.”
I lift her, arms around her thighs, her body molding into mine like she’s always belonged here. I carry her to the bed, laying her down like she’s breakable—but not fragile. Never fragile. Just something too goddamn precious to rush.
I pause. Take her in.
She’s splayed out before me, bare, glowing in the dim light, every inch of her flushed and waiting.
My cock aches—throbs so hard it’s dizzying—but I force myself to slow down.
To savor. I don’t want to fuck this away.
I want to memorize it. Brand it into the parts of me that forgot how to feel anything but empty.
I slide down her body, my mouth pressing kisses along her belly, each one lower than the last. My hands grip her thighs, spreading her open, and when I see her—really fucking see her—I go still.
She’s glistening.
Wet, swollen, pink, and perfect. Her scent hits me hard—familiar and dizzying—and my mouth waters. My throat tightens. I exhale through my teeth and rest my lips just above her clit, teasing her with heat and nothing else.
“I need to taste you,” I murmur, voice ragged.
Then I do.
I start slow. Barely a kiss. Just a whisper of tongue against her slit—light enough to make her hips jerk, to make her whimper like it hurts not to be touched deeper.
“Wild,” she moans, fingers sinking into the sheets, her thighs twitching under my grip.
I groan into her. Fuck, she tastes better than memory.
I lick again, a little lower this time, dragging my tongue through her folds, savoring the slickness, the heat. I tease her with the flat of my tongue, then press the tip right where she needs it—just a flick, just enough to make her gasp.
“Roderick,” she breathes, and fuck if my name doesn’t sound like a prayer on her lips.
I wrap my arms under her thighs, pulling her closer to my face, locking her in. Then I go to work—slow, teasing her the way I know she likes. I circle her clit with my tongue, soft at first, then firmer, sucking gently before flicking again. Her legs shake. Her back arches.
I slide two fingers inside her, slow and smooth, feeling her clench around me as I curl them just right—just there—and her whole body tightens like a bowstring.
“Oh my God,” she gasps, her voice breaking apart.
I don’t stop.
I add pressure. My fingers pump with precision while my mouth locks onto her clit. Sucking. Teasing. Devouring her like she’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.
Because she is.
She bucks under me, thighs trembling, moaning louder now—unfiltered, uncontrolled, so fucking perfect. I feel her getting close, that desperate pull in her hips, the erratic stutter of her breath.
“You’re gonna come for me,” I say against her, lips brushing her clit. “Come on, baby. Let go.”
Her fingers tangle in my hair, her whole body rigid for a beat—then she shatters.
She comes with a cry, her thighs squeezing my head, her pussy pulsing around my fingers as I keep licking her through it, slow and greedy, drinking in every last wave.
I don’t stop until she’s limp, breathless, wrecked, and glowing.
And when I finally crawl back up her body, her eyes are dazed, her mouth parted, and her skin flushed as if she just survived something holy.
I kiss her—soft, deep, full of everything I can’t say yet.
Then I whisper, “I’m not done with you.”
Because I’m not.
Not even fucking close.
“I need you,” I murmur against her jaw, voice splintering with everything I’ve held back for too long. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you wrapped around me. I need—fuck, I just need you.”
She looks up at me, eyes heavy with lust and something softer beneath it. “Then stop waiting.”
I breathe out a curse and pull back.
She’s still spread out across my bed, her face flushed and glowing, her lips swollen from kisses, her thighs slick from my mouth.
I sit back on my knees, watching her watching me, her gaze dragging down my body like a caress.
She reaches up, trailing her fingers over my abs, the jagged scar beneath my ribs, the tattoos on my hip bones. Her touch is reverent, almost shy.
“You’ve changed,” she whispers.
“So have you.” My voice is thick. “But you still fucking ruin me.”
I unbutton my jeans, shove them down along with my briefs, kicking them away, finally bare in front of her. Her eyes drop, and she moans—quiet, throaty. It’s the sexiest goddamn sound I’ve ever heard.
I reach into the nightstand, fingers shaking slightly, and grab a condom. Eddie gave them to me last week to give me a hard time. Saying maybe by having them, I could get lucky. Who’s laughing now? Obviously not me. I’m too busy with the most beautiful woman in the world.
When I turn back, Kit’s on her knees, in the middle of the bed. Reaching for me.
“Let me,” she says, voice warm and low.
I step close.
She tears the foil, her hands slow and careful, eyes locked on mine the whole time. Then she rolls it on me—smooth, sensual, her touch lingering like she’s branding me with her fingers.
My body jerks, a groan caught in my throat. “Fuck, Kit.”
She just smiles. Wicked. Sweet. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
And then I’m crawling back over her.
Kissing her slow, deep. Our mouths glide, our breaths tangle, our chests press together, skin slick and alive. My hips nestle between her thighs, and she opens for me, welcoming, ready, the heat of her wrapping around me like a gravitational pull I can’t fight.
I line myself up, the tip of me brushing her entrance. She’s wet and hot and begging.
I look into her eyes. “Tell me.”
“I want all of you,” she breathes. “Now.”
So I push in—slow, deep, devastating.
Her gasp collides with mine.
She arches under me, her hands gripping my shoulders, her thighs tightening around my hips. I bury myself inch by inch, and it’s too much and not enough all at once. She’s tight, warm, home. I don’t know how I ever survived without this—without her.
“Jesus, Kit.” My forehead drops to hers. “You feel like fucking salvation.”
She whimpers, her nails digging into my back. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”
I start to move—slow thrusts, deep and rhythmic, dragging every nerve to the surface. She clings to me, her breath catching with every roll of my hips. Her legs wrap around my waist, locking me in as I thrust again and again, building that friction, the burn, the unbearable pleasure.
I kiss her like I’m trying to make her believe every lie I ever told and every truth I couldn’t say.
“I missed you,” I whisper against her lips.
Her body trembles. “Show me.”
So I do.
I thrust inside her like she’s everything—because she is. I drive into her with intention, with worship, with desperation. Her hands are everywhere—my hair, my chest, my face. Her lips find mine again, greedy. Every sound she makes owns me a little more.
She’s unraveling beneath me—slow, breathtaking.
Each thrust draws her closer to the edge, but I don’t rush her. I feel every tremble in her thighs, every gasp caught between our lips, every desperate arch of her body like a plea she doesn’t know how to say aloud.
Her moans shift—higher, breathier, strung tight with need. Her hips roll against mine, meeting me stroke for stroke, slick and hot and fucking perfect. Her walls flutter around me, that telltale clutch sending lightning up my spine.
But I want more. I want to watch her fall apart. I want her to know it’s me doing this to her—for her.
I slow down. Just slightly. I grind deeper, hips rolling, hitting that spot that makes her cry out and clamp around me.
“That’s it,” I murmur into her mouth, voice rough and reverent. “You feel that, baby? Right there?”
She whimpers—so goddamn close.
Her fingers claw down my back, and I catch her gaze, hold it, refusing to let her look away. “Come for me again. Let me feel you lose yourself.”
And then it happens.
Her lips part in a silent gasp first. Her eyes flutter closed, then snap open, dazed and wide as her body locks beneath mine. She grabs at me—my shoulders, my hair, whatever she can hold onto as her climax crashes through her like a fucking storm.
“Roderick—” she sobs, and it’s not just pleasure—it’s release. Years of wanting. Years of silence. Everything we couldn’t say pouring out of her in one broken cry.
Her body pulses around me, pulling me deeper, tighter. Her legs wrap around my waist like she’s anchoring herself to this moment, to me.
And I let go.
I come hard, gasping her name into her neck, every muscle in my body seizing as I empty into her, shuddering through it, lost and found all at once.
I don’t move right away. I can’t. I just stay there, buried in her, our chests heaving, sweat-slicked skin pressed together, hearts pounding in sync.
I kiss her—slow, aching, full of everything I can’t say yet. And everything I already know.
She’s mine.
And I press my forehead to hers again.
Because I just got her back.
And I’m never fucking letting her go.