22. I Want To See You
Chapter twenty-two
I Want To See You
Melina
Matt has skills. Exceptional skills. My pulse is still racing, my skin overheated and flushed. I drape an arm over my eyes, suddenly feeling vulnerable beneath the weight of his stare.
The mattress shifts as he settles beside me. “Don’t cover up,” he murmurs, tugging at my wrist. “I want to see you.”
I drop my arm slowly, giving him a small, shy smile. His gaze meets mine, and I let go, surrendering to him completely.
“That was… unexpected,” he says softly, his mouth tilting with a mix of wonder and heat.
He pulls me closer, tracing slow, steady circles down my back. I melt into him, breathing in the quiet safety of his arms, the solid strength that never wavers.
My thoughts drift—will he stay content like this, or will he want more tonight? He feels a little distant, his mind elsewhere.
I brush my fingers along the sharp line of his jaw. “Penny for your thoughts?”
He gives the faintest shake of his head, not willing to let me in. So we lie there in silence, letting the moment settle around us.
My hand drifts over his stomach, sketching lazy shapes across the ridges of muscle. My nails graze lower, close enough to make his breath hitch. A sly, knowing grin plays on his lips.
“You’re insatiable,” he tease, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.
“I want you,” I whisper, the words barely catching air.
The humor fades, replaced by something darker, deeper. “I know… are you sure you’re ready?”
My heart slams against my ribs as I nod. “I’ve been ready. I was waiting for you.”
His expression softens, a raw tenderness breaking through the storm in his eyes. Without a word, he eases me onto my back and lowers himself over me. His mouth crashes onto mine—hungry, rough, demanding. It tastes like possession, like a man claiming what’s his.
He trails lower, down the curve of my neck, hands mapping me with steady pressure—like he’s cataloging every reaction, every place that makes me shiver.
I reach down, my fingers circling his length, feeling the steady throb beneath my palm. His eyes squeeze shut, and a coarse moan tears from his throat.
He shifts above me, the thick head of his cock poised at my slick, aching entrance. He stills there, gaze locked on me, a silent question.
“Please,” I whisper. “I need you inside me.”
His breath shudders out, jaw tightening like the words nearly undo him. “Jesus Christ, Melina…” he rasps.
When he kisses me again, it’s rough with want, desperate in the way he holds me. Then, slowly, agonizingly, he pushes inside.
A sharp gasp breaks free as I tense at the unfamiliar stretch. He freezes instantly, concern flashing across his face.
“Are you okay?” he asks, voice tight with worry.
“Just… slow at first.”
He listens, easing forward with careful, deliberate movements. A deep sigh slips from my lips, eyes fluttering closed. He’s big—bigger than anyone I’ve ever had—and my body takes precious moments to yield, to mold around him.
“Fuck, Melina. You’re so wet.”
He moves carefully, every thrust measured, searching for any sign of discomfort. The ache fades quickly, pleasure rising to take its place, rippling through me until my body welcomes him completely.
“I’m okay now,” I whisper, breathless. “You can go faster.”
He answers with more confidence, driving deeper, quicker. Soft moans spill from us both, our bodies totally in sync. My nails dig into his shoulders as my legs lock tightly around his waist.
Then he freezes, something flickering in his expression.
“What is it?” I say quietly, brushing my hand through his hair.
“Are you…on birth control?” His voice is low, careful, concern shadowing his face.
“We’re safe,” I reassure gently. I can’t get pregnant anymore—but that’s a conversation for another day.
Relief softens his features, and he moves, finding a slow, deliberate rhythm that builds an aching hunger deep within me. He kisses me tenderly, his forehead pressed to mine, whispering tender words against my lips.
“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans, jaw flexing as his grip clamps hard on my hip. “You feel unreal.”
He suddenly stills, his breath hitching, a flicker of embarrassment bleeding through.
“What’s wrong?” I ask softly.
“I just… need a second,” he admits, looking away. “Sorry. It’s been a while.”
My mouth curves into a gentle smile. “Take your time.”
He shuts his eyes, pulling in a steadying inhale. After a moment, he starts again. Every movement hits perfectly, heat blooming until I’m panting in sharp, ragged bursts.
“Melina,” he rasps, throat raw. “I don’t think I can hold on much longer.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, cupping his jaw and forcing his gaze back to me. “I’m close too. Come inside me—I want to feel you.”
His pupils dilate, desire overtaking restraint. His pace quickens, each thrust hitting that sweet, relentless ache in my core. I arch against him, clinging desperately as broken sounds slip from me, his name faltering on my tongue as pleasure surges through me.
“Fuck, Melina,” he groans, muscles coiling tight. “I’m gonna come—”
“Yes, Matty,” I breathe, voice breaking. “Please.”
He drives into me one last time, deep and hard, his body shuddering as his release spills into me. The heat of it sends me spiraling, my own release crashing over me. A cry rips free as I convulse beneath him, nails dragging down his back, ecstasy tearing through every nerve.
He collapses onto me gently, face buried in my neck, both of us trembling. Our breaths mingle, harsh and uneven, as we lie tangled together in the quiet aftermath.
“That was…” he whispers against my skin, unsteady.
“Perfect,” I finish for him, clutching him close. “Absolutely perfect.”
Time blurs as we sink into the warmth of each other, wrapped in silence, our bodies still joined in the afterglow. Eventually, dryness pricks at my throat. I sigh, stretching languidly before sliding out of bed.
“I need water,” I murmur.
He hums in response, reluctant to let me go, but loosens his hold. I pull my sleep shorts and bra back on and pad toward the kitchen. The fridge light spills across the room as I twist open a cold bottle, tilting it for a long, refreshing sip.
When I turn around, Matt is suddenly right behind me—bare-chested, wearing only his boxers, his expression unreadable. I jolt, the bottle slipping in my hand as my heart lurches.
“Jesus, Matty!” I gasp, letting out a shaky laugh as I try to steady my breathing. “You scared me.”
“Sorry,” he apologizes, voice low.
I force a smile, still a little rattled. “Do you want a water too?”
He hesitates, eyes dark. “No.” A beat. “Yes.”
The smile falters on my lips, confusion prickling through me. Something’s wrong. My chest tightens as I grab another bottle from the fridge and press it into his hand.
He twists the cap off and drains it in seconds, setting the empty bottle on the counter with a forceful exhale. Still, he won’t look at me.
“Matty…” My tone softens, edged with worry. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me.”
Without a word, he takes my hand and leads me into the living room, guiding me to the couch. He reaches for the lamp, flooding the space with a soft, golden glow. I glance at the clock—almost 4 a.m. Tomorrow I’ll be wrecked, but right now, none of that matters. All that matters is him.
I sit silently, waiting for him to speak, not wanting to push. But the quiet stretches, heavy and suffocating until I can’t take it anymore.
“You regret it,” I whisper finally, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
His head snaps toward me, confusion shadowing his expression. “What?”
My stomach sinks. “It’s okay if you do. I just—”
Realization slams into him, horror flashing across his face.
“Melina.” His voice cracks sharp, urgent.
He catches my hand, gripping it firmly. His chest rises hard, like he’s trying to rein himself in.
“Jesus, no,” he says, shaking his head quickly. “Never.”
His eyes blaze into mine, fierce, unflinching. Then his tone drops, softer, raw.
“Don’t you ever think that.”
He cups my face in both hands, pulling me closer until our foreheads nearly touch. His breath is warm against my skin, his tone steady and sure.
“I don’t regret a single second with you. Not one.”
Relief floods me, my fears easing, but only for a moment. “Then tell me what’s wrong.”
He exhales hard, shoulders sinking. “It’s about the photos.”
My pulse kicks. “Okay. What about them?”
“They were candid shots.”
My eyes widen. “Candids of what?”
“Steele pumping gas. Bishop on a run. Harper at Starbucks. Spencer at soccer practice.”
A sick weight settles in my gut. I shouldn’t be surprised, but hearing the details makes it real in a way that knots my insides with dread. The police said to keep my children close, but this confirms—he’s watching them too.
“The kids?” I gasp, the word tearing out of me.
Matt nods. Terror claws up my spine, sharp and merciless. I can’t breathe. My babies. My chest aches like it’s caving in.
Then another thought cuts through, confusion pulling my brows tight. “You said there was a photo of you and me, too?”
His expression shifts instantly, like he’s wrestling with something he doesn’t want to say. Pain flickers across his face, and for a second, he looks almost…desperate.
“There was,” he admits at last, voice rough.
My throat goes dry. “Okay… where was it taken?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pushes abruptly to his feet. “Give me a minute.”
He disappears into my bedroom and comes back moments later, a single Polaroid pinched between trembling fingers. My stomach drops. I thought he said these were evidence. Why is he holding one?
A fresh wave of anxiety crashes over me. He sinks onto the couch beside me, exhaling a long, heavy breath.
“I need you to hear me first,” he says carefully, eyes locked on mine. “This doesn’t change a thing. That night—what happened between us—was one of the best nights of my life.”
My heartbeat slams in my ears. I already know what this is, even before I see it. Dread coils low.