Chapter 7 Emory #2
His mouth found mine again—slower now, deeper—while one hand mapped the curve of my waist, the dip of my hip, the sensitive skin along my inner thigh.
When his fingers finally slipped between my legs, I gasped into his kiss.
He was already hard against my stomach, thick and insistent, but he didn’t rush.
Instead, he circled my clit with slow, deliberate strokes, learning me all over again, watching every flicker across my face.
“Emory,” he whispered, voice rough but almost reverent. “Look at me.”
I did. I couldn’t look away. His hazel eyes held mine, dark and unguarded. There was no smirk, no teasing—just raw need and something softer. Something that felt dangerously close to worship.
He shifted his hips, notched himself at my entrance, and paused.
The blunt head of him pressed just inside, stretching that first delicate ring of muscle.
My breath hitched. He waited, thumb still moving in lazy, perfect circles over my clit, keeping me suspended in that shimmering edge of sensation.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured.
“It’s not.” My voice came out shaky. “I want all of you.”
He exhaled—a low, ragged sound—and pushed forward in one long, controlled glide.
The stretch was exquisite, almost too full, every inch of him pressing against every sensitive place inside me until he was seated completely, hips flush to mine.
I felt the throb of his pulse where we were joined, felt the way my body fluttered around him, trying to adjust.
For a long moment we simply stayed like that—locked together, breathing each other’s air. Finally, he spoke.
“God, you feel…” He swallowed hard, words dissolving into a quiet groan.
Then he began to move.
Slow. So slow. Deep, rolling thrusts that dragged against every nerve ending, pulling soft whimpers from my throat.
His thumb never left my clit—steady pressure, tight little circles that matched the rhythm of his hips.
Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in my core, bright and liquid, until it felt like I might shatter from the inside out.
I kept my eyes on his as long as I could.
Watched the way his brows drew together, the way his lips parted on every exhale, the way color climbed high on his cheekbones.
He never looked away either. Not once. Even as his breathing turned ragged, even as sweat beaded along his hairline and his thrusts grew fractionally harder, deeper—he held my gaze like it was the only thing anchoring him.
Sounds filled the room—the slick glide of our bodies, the soft creak of the bed frame, my own breathless moans, his low, guttural groans every time I clenched around him. My name fell from his lips again and again—Emory, Emory—like a litany, like something sacred.
The pressure built unbearably. My thighs trembled. My fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin.
“Kai—” His name came out half sob, half plea.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
One more precise stroke over my clit, one more deep thrust that hit exactly right—and I broke.
The orgasm crashed through me in blinding waves, inner walls pulsing hard around him, pulling him deeper.
My eyes squeezed shut. I couldn’t keep them open anymore.
The pleasure was too much, too bright, drowning every thought until there was only sensation—heat, fullness, the electric snap of release.
He groaned my name one last time—low, wrecked—and followed me over the edge.
His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt as he came.
I felt the hot pulse of him inside me, felt the way his whole body shuddered, muscles locking tight.
The sound he made was raw, almost broken—a long, trembling moan that vibrated against my throat as he pressed his face into the curve of my neck.
We clung to each other through the aftershocks, breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem. He stayed inside me, softening slowly, unwilling to let go yet. His lips brushed my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth—soft, reverent kisses that felt like promises.
When he finally eased out and rolled us so I was draped across his chest, I pressed my ear over his heart and listened to it thunder, then gradually slow. His arms wrapped around me like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
“Emory,” he whispered into my hair, voice hoarse. “I’m never letting you go again.”
I smiled against his skin, lashes still damp. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”
And in the quiet, golden light of late afternoon, with our bodies still humming and his heartbeat steady under my cheek, I knew it was true.
This wasn't just passion. This was commitment.
This was forever.
After, we lay tangled together in the fading afternoon light. His hand traced lazy patterns on my back, and I pressed my ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
"Stay," he said quietly.
One word. But it held everything.
I lifted my head to look at him. His eyes were soft, vulnerable, more open than I'd ever seen them.
"I told you," I said, smiling. "I'm not going anywhere. I have a house to sit."
He laughed—a real laugh, full and warm—and pulled me closer.
"I don't mean just the next two weeks," he said. "I mean after. I mean…stay. With me. Here."
My heart swelled. "What about law school? It’s online, and I can do it from anywhere, but…"
He brushed a strand of hair from my face. "Do it from here. With me."
"Kai…”
"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other a couple of weeks. But I've never been more sure of anything in my life." His eyes held mine, steady and certain. "You're it for me, Emory. You have been since the beginning. So stay. Please."
I kissed him softly. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'll stay. Yes, I'll do law school from here. Yes to all of it." I grinned against his lips. "You're stuck with me now."
He rolled me onto my back and kissed me until I was breathless. "Good. Here is exactly where I want you."