Chapter 22 #2
I took him deeper, relaxing my throat, letting him slide all the way in until my nose brushed his skin. He choked out a sound that was half moan, half plea.
But then his hand tightened in my hair—not pulling me off, but holding me still.
“Wait,” he rasped, voice strained. “Stop. Stop, babe.”
I froze, lips still wrapped around him, eyes flicking up to meet his.
His chest heaved. Sweat glistened on his skin. His eyes were wild, dark, and so full of something tender it made my heart stutter.
“I want us to come together,” he said hoarsely. “First time—I want to be inside you when I lose it. Want to feel you clench around me while I’m coming.”
I slowly pulled off him with a soft, wet pop, licking my lips as I crawled back up his body. His cock bobbed against his stomach, slick and red, glistening from my mouth.
I straddled his hips again, bracing my hands on his chest. “You sure?” I teased, voice husky. “I was enjoying that.”
He laughed—a short, breathless sound—and gripped my hips, thumbs digging in just enough to bruise in the best way.
“I know you were,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. “And fuck … you almost killed me.” He lifted his hips, sliding his length along my soaked folds, teasing my clit until I whimpered. “But I need to be buried in you when I come, Soph. Need to feel you come with me.”
My heart squeezed.
Only then did he flip me and crawl up my body, kissing every inch he passed—my stomach, the undersides of my breasts through the satin, the hollow of my throat.
When he reached my mouth, I tasted myself on his tongue and moaned into the kiss.
“Wyatt, I need you inside me,” I said against his lips. “Now.”
He reached behind me, found the zipper of my dress, and dragged it down. The satin pooled around my waist. He pushed the straps off my shoulders, baring my breasts—fuller than they used to be, heavier, nipples already tight and aching.
Wyatt’s breath caught.
“Fuck,” he whispered, palming one breast, thumb circling the peak. “These are perfect.”
He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard while his hand kneaded the other. I arched into him, thighs spreading wider, silently begging.
He shifted, notched himself at my entrance.
“Look at me,” he ordered, voice gravel-rough.
I did.
His eyes were nearly black with want, but underneath it was something softer. Something that looked a lot like love.
“To tell you God's honest truth, Soph, I’ve wanted this for a long time,” he said quietly. “Every time I thought about home, I thought about you. About this.”
Tears pricked my eyes.
“Then take it,” I whispered. “Take me.”
He pushed in—slow. Inch by inch. Stretching me. Filling me. Until he was seated to the hilt and we both groaned like we’d finally come home.
He stilled, forehead pressed to mine, breathing hard.
“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice strained.
“More than anything in the whole world,” I breathed. “Don’t stop.”
He started to move.
Slow at first—long, deep rolls of his hips that dragged every ridge along my walls. Each thrust pushed a soft cry from my throat. My nails scored down his back. His mouth found mine again, kissing me through every stroke, swallowing my moans.
Then faster.
Harder.
The bed creaked beneath us. Skin slapped skin. Sweat slicked between us.
He hooked one of my legs over his elbow, changing the angle, hitting deeper. I keened, head thrown back.
“Right there—Wyatt, right there—”
He pounded into that spot relentlessly, finger finding my clit again, rubbing tight circles.
“Come with me,” he growled against my ear, voice raw and wrecked. “Come on my cock, Soph. Let me feel you milk me.”
The command tipped me over.
I came hard—harder than before—clenching around him in tight, pulsing waves, crying his name like it was the only word I remembered. My vision whited out, pleasure crashing through me so violently my whole body shook, nails digging into his shoulders as if I could anchor myself to him forever.
Wyatt followed two thrusts later, burying himself to the hilt, hips stuttering as he spilled inside me with a guttural groan that sounded like my name torn from his soul.
I felt every hot pulse of him, felt him throb and fill me, claiming me in the most primal way possible. His arms locked around me like iron bands, holding me so tight I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but feel him—inside me, around me, everywhere.
We stayed like that for long, trembling seconds. Joined. Spent. Breath ragged against each other’s skin.
And in the quiet that followed, something strange and beautiful settled over me.
It was so surreal—how right this felt.
How impossible and inevitable, all at once.
I’d known this man since we were kids covered in dirt and sunburn, racing bikes down cracked Valentine streets, stealing glances at each other across church pews, laughing until our sides hurt at stupid jokes only we understood.
He’d been the boy who taught me how to throw a punch, who carried me home on his back when I sprained my ankle jumping off the dock, who looked at me like I hung the moon even when I was just a gangly thirteen-year-old with braces and too much attitude.
We’d lost each other twice.
But fate, stubborn and relentless, had brought us back.
And now here we were: grown people, bodies scarred and changed, hearts finally brave enough to stop running.
He was still that same kid underneath it all—the one with the crooked grin and the quiet loyalty—but God, he was so much more now.
Harder. Broader. Battle-worn in ways that made my chest hurt with pride and tenderness.
The same steady hands that used to braid wildflowers into my hair now gripped my hips like I was the only thing keeping him grounded.
The same eyes that used to sparkle with mischief now darkened with something possessive and reverent when they looked at me.
He was mine.
He’d always been mine.
And I was his.
The thought hit me like a warm wave, washing away years of almosts and maybes.
I lifted my head from where it had fallen against his shoulder, pressed my lips to the pulse hammering in his throat, and whispered into his skin, “This feels like coming home.”
Wyatt’s arms tightened around me, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair.
“Been waiting my whole damn life to come home to you,” he murmured, voice thick. He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to my temple, then another to the corner of my eye where a tear had escaped without me realizing. “Never letting you go again, Soph. You’re it for me.”
I smiled against his neck, tears slipping free now—not from pain, but from the sheer relief of finally being exactly where I belonged.
“About damn time, cowboy,” I whispered back.
He huffed a quiet laugh—the sound rumbling through his chest into mine—and rolled us slowly so I was tucked against his side, still joined, his leg thrown over mine like he needed every point of contact.
We lay there in the tangled sheets, the city lights flickering through the windows, jazz still drifting softly from somewhere in the suite.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on my bare back—circles, hearts, his initials maybe—and I felt the last of the years between us dissolve.
No more running.
No more pretending.
Just us.
Finally, completely, irrevocably us.
“I love you,” I whispered into his skin. “I was going to tell you that at dinner.”
His arms tightened.
“Sophie Clarke, I’ve loved you since the day you pushed me off the rope swing because I called you short,” he said, voice thick. “Never stopped. Never will.”
I lifted my head, met his eyes.
“Then don’t.”