Chapter 17 Sloane
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sloane
Oh, what am I doing?
And why can’t I stop?
Ezra’s mouth is on mine before I can think, before I can breathe, before I can remember all the reasons this is supposed to be a terrible idea. His hands are at my waist, tugging me closer until there’s no space left to hide in.
The taste of him. The quiet, wrecked sound he makes when he deepens the kiss. The way he holds me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he lets go…
It’s too much. It’s everything.
I should push him away. I should tell him this isn’t what either of us needs.
But I can’t.
Because right now, it’s the only thing that makes sense.
His fingers slide up the back of my neck, threading through my hair, tilting my face up so he can look at me. His eyes are wild and soft all at once, pupils blown wide.
“Sloane,” he murmurs. “You feel so good.”
He does too. I wish I could find the words to tell him as much.
Instead, I pull him back to me, kissing him like I’m starving, tugging his clothing off just as he is mine.
Material seems to be flying everywhere, making my head spin. The kitchen fades. The walls, the rules, the whole damn world… gone. It’s just heat and heartbeat and breath and the sound of his name somewhere in the mess of it all.
When he breaks the kiss, his forehead presses to mine, both of us shaking.
The way Ezra’s hands grip my waist, the desperate edge in his touch, makes the whole thing feel dangerous in the best possible way.
When his mouth drifts from mine, I can barely breathe. My head tips back, eyes fluttering shut as the rush of it all threatens to swallow me whole.
Fucking hell, how am I supposed to resist this?
Maybe I don’t have to.
Maybe if we keep this moment contained—if it stays right here, right now—then it doesn’t have to mean anything more, just another secret between two people who should know better.
As long as no one walks in, as long as the world stays quiet a little longer, maybe we’ll be fine.
Ezra’s breath catches against my skin, and the sound sends a tremor through me. His touch softens, hesitates, asking a question he’s too afraid to say out loud. I open my eyes and find his. Wild and uncertain and hungry.
It hits me then, somewhere deep in my chest: this isn’t just about want. It’s about everything we’ve been trying not to feel.
“Ezra,” I whisper, not sure if I’m warning him or begging him.
Suddenly, he drops to his knees in front of me, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. The sight of him, so sure, so intent, steals the air from my lungs.
He looks up, and whatever I was about to say dies in my throat. There’s nothing playful in his expression now. It’s reverent. Hungry. Almost desperate.
The world seems to shrink until there’s nothing but the two of us. The hum of the fridge, the faint creak of floorboards, the sound of our breathing tangled together.
He reaches for me, his touch feather light against my thigh, and the shock of it sends a tremor through me. I clutch at the counter behind me, torn between wanting to pull him closer and forcing myself to stop this before we go too far.
But he looks at me like I’m something holy, and my resolve cracks.
His breath grazes my skin, and I shiver, caught somewhere between fear and euphoria.
“Can I taste you? Your scent is utterly intoxicating…”
I can’t answer with words. Only a broken sound escapes me, part sigh, part plea, but that’s all he needs.
The world seems to slow as he lowers his head, his breath a warm ghost against my skin. Every nerve lights up, every inch of me aware of him. His nearness, his restraint, the way his hands are steady when everything inside me isn’t.
“Ezra…” His name comes out as a prayer I don’t remember learning.
He chuckles softly, the sound deep and low, and the vibration of it seems to travel straight through me. My hands find his shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to, because he’s unraveling me piece by piece.
His tongue lightly grazes my clit at first, making my whole body stiffen. The heat of his mouth drives me absolutely wild, especially as he starts to devour me.
He becomes a madman on a mission, causing the pressure of pleasure to surge through me as bolts of lightning.
I honestly don’t know how I’m still on my feet.
Every flicker of his tongue makes my head spin. I don’t even recognize the primal sounds rolling out of me. I can’t concentrate on anything but the feel of him tasting me.
His rough, hot tongue is too much; I can’t get enough of it.
“Oh, Ezra…”
It slips out as a confession. My pulse is everywhere. In my throat, my fingertips, my knees, threatening to give out. I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s dizzying, dangerous, and so achingly right.
He’s about to send me tumbling over the edge, and I can’t wait for it.
Every breath feels electric, every heartbeat too loud. I want to hold on to this moment, this suspended, aching before, for as long as I can, to memorize the way it feels to be wanted like this.
But control slips through my fingers.
Not when he looks at me that way.
Not when every inch of me is tuned to the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his touch, the quiet reverence in his eyes.
When my knees give out, he’s already there, catching me, steadying me. His hands curve around me as if they were made for the job.
The world tilts, and then his mouth is on mine again, the kiss deep and dizzying. I taste the remnants of everything we shouldn’t have done, everything we can’t seem to stop wanting.
It’s messy, hungry, and impossibly tender all at once. The kind of kiss that makes promises it has no right to make.
I clutch at him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close as if that might anchor me.
“Are you done with me yet?” he murmurs cheekily against my lips.
The smirk that tugs at his lips is pure provocation, but his eyes—dark, uncertain, and hungry—tell a different story.
I shake my head before I can think better of it, pulse hammering in my throat.
The air feels charged, heavy with the scent of rain-soaked pine through the cracked kitchen window and the faint salt of his skin. My body hasn’t quite remembered how to calm down yet. Every nerve is still tuned to him.
“Fair enough,” he breathes, and the words slide over my skin like a touch.
He drags me closer, closing the distance inch by inch until his breath mingles with mine. His hand finds my jaw, rough fingertips tracing the edge of it before he tilts my chin up.
The kiss starts as a whisper, barely there, a test of willpower neither of us possesses anymore. Then it deepens, slow and consuming, the kind of kiss that drowns out thought.
He presses me gently against the wall. The cold surface at my back only makes the warmth of him stand out more. I cling to him, trying to memorize the shape of this moment before it inevitably shatters.
The world narrows to the sound of our breathing, uneven, desperate, tangled together as he finally thrusts inside me. Every movement is a collision of want and wonder.
It seems to be seconds before the pleasure begins to build. Before I can feel my head spinning out of control once more.
It curls in my toes as I wrap my legs around his waist, and bursts through my veins, fizzing wildly. My spine stiffens as he tips me ever closer to the edge.
I try to calm myself, to slow the inevitable, but he’s everywhere… in the press of his body, in the way he whispers my name like it’s something sacred.
The world blurs. Time folds in on itself. All I can do is hold on.
When the burning hot bliss hits once more, it feels less like falling and more like flying. Wild, bright, a little ridiculous. I’m half convinced my soul just left my body and is now hovering above us, shaking its head in disbelief.
I cry out his name, repeatedly, as if I don’t know any other words until we’re trembling, sweaty, and way too close. My hair is plastered to my temples, his breath still catching against my skin.
Ezra’s hand drifts down my arm, slow and careful, tracing goosebumps that won’t quit.
“We shouldn’t have,” he murmurs.
I nod, trying to look serious even though my legs are basically jelly. “Yeah. Totally. Terrible idea.”
Neither of us moves.
Because under all the awkward, dizzy, post-wrong decision silence, there’s this undeniable truth humming between us:
This isn’t over.
Not even close.