Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Penelope
Decker brings his hand to my face, his thumb dragging slowly across my cheekbone, and since there’s no one around, this time there’re no interruptions, no reason to rush. Thank God Leighton’s mom and aunt agreed to keep Hazel overnight with the other three kids.
He kisses me.
It’s not tentative. And definitely not careful.
He takes my mouth as though he’s done waiting, and I feel it everywhere at once—the pull of his hand in my hair, the hard press of his body crowding me back against the wall, the cool plaster at my spine, and the heat of him along every inch of me.
I catch his lapels in both fists and drag him closer because I don’t want even an inch of space between us. I’ve waited too long for this.
“God, Pen,” he says against my mouth, the words rough and unsteady. “You have no idea.”
“Tell me,” I whisper, already breathless, wanting to hear that he’s been thinking about this moment as much as I have.
His mouth slides from mine to my jaw, slower now, but somehow no less devastating. He kisses along the sensitive line beneath my ear, and I shiver.
“Every time you walked into a room,” he murmurs.
Another kiss, just an inch lower.
“Every time you laughed.”
His hand tightens at my waist.
“Every time I caught you watching me.”
My fingers flex in his shirt. “I never watched you.”
He doesn’t lift his head, but I can feel his smile against my skin.
“Oh, Pen.” His voice drops, rough with want. “You were always watching me.”
His hand slides down my back, deliberate, possessive, until his fingers find the zipper of my dress. He hovers there.
“But I was watching you too. There wasn’t a room I entered that I didn’t seek you out.”
My whole body goes taut with desire, blood rushing, every nerve fixed on the feel of his hand at my spine.
“You wore this for me.” Not a question, but rather a statement.
I should have known he’d know. “Yes.”
His mouth grazes my neck, and he groans.
It sends another pulse of heat through me.
“The second you walked in tonight, I stopped hearing half the conversation around me. All I could think about was getting you alone. Getting my hands on you. Getting this dress off your body.”
My breath catches.
His fingers brush the zipper again, slow enough to make me ache. “Do you know how hard it was sitting across from you?”
I tilt my head back against the wall, offering him more of my throat. “Probably not as hard as it was for me.”
That gets a low sound out of him—half laugh, half groan—and then his mouth is on mine again, deeper this time, his hand finally pulling the zipper down in one slow, maddening drag.
The dress loosens around me, the fabric slipping, his knuckles grazing bare skin as he opens me up to him. He doesn’t rush. And that’s what undoes me. The way he takes his time as though this matters. As though he’s wanted this for so long, he refuses to miss a second of it.
“Decker.” It comes out softer than I mean it to.
“I know.” His forehead presses to mine for one brief second before his mouth moves to my throat again. “I know.”
The dress slips from my shoulders.
He helps it down my body, his hands following the path of the falling fabric, palms warm and reverent over my bare skin until it pools at my feet.
The air feels cooler, sharper, and every place he touches is suddenly alive.
He steps back, and his gaze falls down my body, his thumb running over his lips. For a second, Decker just looks at me. The hunger in his eyes undoes most of my patience.
I’m standing in a black bra and panty set while he’s still fully dressed in his suit. Need settles low in my stomach and spreads.
His hand slides over my waist, then higher, slowly enough to make me tremble. “Tell me this is real.”
I lift my hands to his face and hold him there, make him look at me. “It’s real.”
His shoulders fall, softer than moments ago.
Decker kisses me again, and there’s nothing careful left in it. His hands move with purpose—down my back, over my hips, pulling me into him until I feel exactly how much he wants me. My head tips back against the wall, a breath leaving me when his mouth drags down my throat.
“Decker.” His name sounds wrecked coming from my mouth, and he answers it immediately, his hands tightening.
“I’ve got you.” The words are low and hot against my skin. “I’ve got you.”
I believe him.
That might be the most dangerous part, putting myself one hundred percent into us. But I’m doing it.
My fingers go to his shirt, suddenly impatient. I don’t want layers. I don’t want barriers. I want skin on skin and all the years between us burned down to nothing. I start at the buttons, but he catches my hand gently, planting the sweetest kiss inside my wrists.
“Upstairs.” The word is barely more than a breath off his lips but sounds like a command.
He takes my hand and leads me up the stairs, and even that feels intimate somehow—my bare feet against the floor, his hand snug in mine, both of us knowing this has gone beyond teasing, beyond flirting, beyond all the almosts of the past. This is finally happening.
When we reach the bedroom, he turns back to me, and for a beat, he only stares.
“You’re very quiet,” I say, though I’m no steadier than he is.
“I’m trying not to lose my mind.”
I laugh softly, but it breaks when he steps in close again.
His fingers skim my collarbone, grazing over to my shoulder. “I waited three years to have you again. I don’t want to rush through a single second of tonight.”
The tenderness in his voice almost undoes me more than the hunger.
Then his mouth is back on mine, and the patience he was trying so hard to keep starts slipping. His hands roam more urgently, the kiss turning deeper, hungrier. He pushes me backward until the backs of my knees hit the bed.
He stops only long enough to search my face. “Still good?”
I slide my hands into his hair, pulling him down. “You don’t even have to ask.”
His eyes close for half a second as though he’s been waiting a lifetime for me to say that. But his restraint only lasts so long, breaking quickly.
He kisses me as if he wants to make up for lost time, and I gladly let him.
His mouth is hot and demanding, and his hands are everywhere now—my waist, my thigh, my back—touching me as if I might disappear.
A ragged breath tears out of me when he lowers me onto the bed and follows, braced over me, his mouth trailing down my throat again.
“Do you know,” he says, voice rough, “how many times I’ve thought about this?” His hand slides along my side, dragging another shiver out of me. “How many nights I’ve laid awake imagining what it would be like to have you under me again?”
My pulse kicks harder than a bass drum.
“You have too many clothes on.” I push at his suit jacket, and this time, he allows me to undress him.
He doesn’t rush to help the way most men might. Doesn’t try to take control. We get off the bed, and he stands there, tall and solid in front of me, watching and waiting to see what I’ll do next.
I slide the jacket off his shoulders. The heavy fabric slips down his arms and drops to the floor.
“You’re very patient all of a sudden,” I murmur.
His mouth curves faintly. “You seem determined.”
“That’s because I want to see you.”
“I get it. Believe me, I fucking get it.” His hungry eyes take me in one more time, and he nestles his hand along my hip.
I reach for his tie, loosening the knot slowly. My fingers brush the warm skin of his throat, and his breath hitches. Something about this man on the verge of losing control because of me is the most potent aphrodisiac.
“You could help.”
“I could,” he agrees.
He doesn’t move.
The tie slides free, and I toss it over the chair before moving to the buttons of his shirt. One by one, I work them open, my knuckles grazing his chest as the fabric parts.
He stays still through all of it, shoulders relaxed, arms loose at his sides, as though this—standing here while I undress him—is something he’s been waiting to see happen.
When I reach the last button, I push the shirt open and slide my hands across his chest. “Still not helping?”
His voice drops lower. “You told me to let you do it.”
I push the shirt off his shoulders, and this time, he lifts his arms slightly so I can pull it free from his waistband.
My fingers manipulate the button on his pants, and his stomach indents with a big breath.
I slowly lower the zipper over his bulge, and the groan that escapes him pulls a smile from my lips.
“Something funny?”
“Nothing.” I slide my hands around the inside of his waistband to his ass and push the pants down.
I’m so hot and horny for this man, I have no idea how I’ve waited this long.
He steps out of his pants and takes off his socks as I sit on the edge of the bed and admire him in only his black boxer briefs.
Once he’s done, he steps closer, hovering over me.
I run my hand over his dick trying to free itself from his boxers.
His fingers unhook my bra, and I slip my arms free of it.
Staring down at me, his eyes turn molten, and he bites into his bottom lip. “Take off your panties.”
I hurriedly shed them.
His hands dive into my hair, his eyes roaming along every bare inch of my skin. “Get farther up on the bed, Pen.”
I do as he says while he takes off his boxers, his thick length bouncing out and up from the fabric.
He climbs onto the bed, and I almost smile, but it dissolves when he kisses me again and his weight settles fully over me. I can feel how tightly wound he is, how close he is to the edge of his control, and it only makes my desire stronger.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
His reaction is immediate.
A low sound leaves him, and his forehead drops briefly to mine, as if he’s gathering whatever frayed pieces of control he can scrape up.
“Oh Pen, I’m yours too. Always have been.” He says it with so much heart that tears fill my eyes.
His mouth moves down me again, his hands learning me in long, unhurried passes that feel anything but innocent. Every touch is more intimate than the last, every kiss drawing me tighter and tighter until I’m arching into him without thinking, wanting more, needing more.
“I’m on the pill, and I haven’t…”
“I haven’t been with anyone in a long time, Pen. I’ve been tested.”
The tip of him teases my opening, and I arch, needing him to fill me completely.
“Okay.”
He lifts his head just enough to look at me. “You want me bare?”
I nod. “Yes.”
His expression changes—something hotter, darker, fiercely satisfied transforming it. He slides into me, every inch earning another guttural groan from him. “Shit, you’re wet.”
“Don’t stop.”
“I have no intention of it.”
And he doesn’t. He gives me everything slowly at first, as if he wants to feel every reaction, hear every breath, learn every sound I make when I’m falling apart under his hands and mouth.
Then the pace shifts. His control thins.
The desperation we’ve been holding back for years finally shows, and it turns the whole thing wilder, needier.
It isn’t sweet, though there’s tenderness threaded through every movement. It’s want. Longing. Relief. It’s over a decade of unfinished business finally given somewhere to go.
At one point he stills just enough to brush my hair back from my face, his chest rising hard, his gaze locked on mine. “You okay?”
I nod, barely able to catch a full breath. “More than okay.”
He slides his hand along my jaw. “Tell me if you need anything.”
I pull him back down by the back of his neck and kiss him until the question disappears.
Then there’s no talking—only broken sounds, the rasps of breath, the soft creak of the mattress, him whispering my name as if it’s the only word left in the world.
I hold on to him just as tightly, my nails in his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can anchor myself, because suddenly the distance of all those lost years feels too vast.
He buries his face against my neck, breath hot and uneven, his grip tightening around me as the rhythm between us falters, rebuilds, then finally breaks.
“Pen—” he breathes, the rest of my name dissolving into a rough exhale.
The sound of his desperation sends something sharp and bright through me, and I cling to him as the moment crashes over me. I come on a whimper, and before I even recover, he’s there too, as if he was holding it at bay for me.
For a second, neither of us moves.
He remains braced over me, chest rising and falling hard, his forehead pressed against mine. Our breaths mix in the small space between us.
My hands loosen their grip on his shoulders.
“Jesus,” he murmurs.
I’m still catching my breath myself, my fingers tracing down his back.
Years of almosts and maybes and what-ifs, and somehow it all led here—to this quiet moment when neither of us has the energy to pretend we don’t belong exactly where we are.
He lowers himself beside me, pulling me against his chest as though this is our new normal.
And maybe it is. I hope to hell it is. I hope that we can get it right this time around.