Chapter 14
I toss and turn all night, sheets twisted around my legs, his kiss still burned into my lips.
Sleep won’t come. Finally, I throw off the bedding and pad into the kitchen, hoping water will wash away the heat simmering under my skin.
But as I pass the living room window, something catches my eye, and any hope of peace dies instantly.
Will. Across the street. On his couch. Shirtless. Head tipped back. One hand resting behind his neck. The other—oh my. My breath catches. His jeans are undone, and he looks like he’s just run a hand through his hair. Like he’s either coming down from something or trying not to give in to it.
My fingers tighten around the glass.
These feelings for him? They’re no longer whispers in the background. They’re thunder. They’re wildfire. I think of him when I don’t want to. I crave him when I try to forget.
And now, watching him like this, alone and raw in the glow of a single lamp… it’s too much.
I should look away.
I don’t.
I can’t take it anymore.
Not the ache. Not the pulse between my thighs. Not the way Will looks across the street, like sin and temptation and everything I’ve spent years trying to ignore.
My hand trembles as I set the glass down.
I don’t go back to bed.
Instead, I sink into my couch, still facing the window, still watching him. I prop my feet on the coffee table and spread my legs, my breath tight in my chest. He shifts, dragging a hand down his stomach, and my whole body responds like he’s touching me.
I press my thighs together, pulse hammering. The silence in the apartment is deafening. Just the tick of the clock and the faint sound of wind through the trees outside.
My hand slips beneath the hem of my tank top, grazing bare skin. I close my eyes for a second, just to breathe, but then I open them again.
He’s still there.
Still spread out like a goddamn fever dream. Still wrecking me without even trying.
I let my head fall back against the cushion as my fingers slide lower, breath stuttering. It feels wicked. Desperate. Honest. Like giving in to something I’ve denied for too long.
My eyes don’t leave him.
Because even if he never touches me again, this moment? It’s his.
My fingers dip beneath the band of my shorts just as the buzz of my phone slices through the silence.
I freeze. Heart pounding. His name glows on the screen like a dare. I hesitate for half a second, then swipe to answer with breathless fingers. I don’t even say hello.
“Phern,” he says. “Are you watching me?”
A pause. I exhale slowly, fingers still trembling. “Yes.”
There’s a silence so thick I could drown in it.
“Jesus.” The sound is a growl. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”
“Probably the same thing it’s doing to me.”
A ragged inhale on his end. “You touching yourself?”
“Yes.” My voice is barely more than a breath. “Were you?”
“I was trying not to. Then I thought about your mouth. About the way you looked at me tonight. I couldn’t stop.”
My fingers move again. Slow, aching, and so much more intense with his voice in my ear.
“I can see you,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “And if I were there, I’d be on my knees for you.”
“Will—”
“I wouldn’t stop with my fingers, Phern. I’d taste you. Drag my tongue over every inch of you until you were begging me not to stop.”
My hips lift into my hand, chasing the rhythm, chasing him. “Tell me more.”
“I’d make you sit right here,” he growls, “on my face. Let you ride it until you screamed. Until you soaked me.”
A moan slips from my lips, helpless.
“You close?”
“So close.”
“Good. Don’t stop. I want you to come for me. With me.”
And when I do—when it crashes over me like a violent, beautiful wave—I don’t hold back. I let him hear it. Every whimper. Every breath. On the other end of the line, I hear his release too. A guttural sound that makes my whole body clench all over again.
The silence that follows is electric.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment.
“Phern?”
“Yeah?”
“I need to see you. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now.”
I don’t even think about it.
I toss on a hoodie, don’t bother with a bra, and slip my bare feet into my boots. The night air bites at my skin as I cross the street, heart hammering, skin still flushed from the sound of his voice wrecking me in my own living room.
The bar is dark but I know the code. I punch it in with shaking fingers and slip inside.
The moment I shut the door behind me, I feel him.
Will steps out from behind the bar, still shirtless, jeans barely hanging on his hips. The air between us hums like it’s charged, like the walls themselves know what’s about to happen.
Neither of us says a word. I walk toward him, slow, deliberate. He meets me halfway. And then I’m in his arms, my mouth on his, the taste of him still lingering on my tongue from nothing but memory and need.
He lifts me with a growl, setting me on the edge of the bar, hands dragging the hoodie off like he needs to see skin. I tug at his jeans, pulling him closer.
“You didn’t even knock,” he breathes against my neck.
“You didn’t even ask.”
“Hold on sugar.”
That’s the only warning I get before Will drops to his knees in front of me, hands sure and shaking all at once as he drags my shorts down my legs. His mouth finds the inside of my thigh, like he’s offering up a prayer.
Like I’m something holy.
My pulse slams against my ribs. “Will, I’ve never…”
His eyes find mine—dark, focused, full of something deeper than lust. “Don’t worry, sugar,” he says, voice like smoke and sin. “Daddy’s gonna make this feel so damn good for you.”
And then he’s on me.
Mouth hot. Tongue unrelenting. He doesn’t play. Doesn’t tease. He devours. Like he’s been starving for this and now that he has it, he’s never letting go.
A cry tears from my throat, my head falling back, hands scrambling against the wood behind me, reaching for something to hold on to.
But it’s only him.
Only Will.
Every slow drag of his tongue, every groan that rumbles from his chest into my skin, winds me tighter and tighter until I’m gasping, falling apart, legs trembling on either side of his shoulders.
“Will,” I whisper. “Will, I—”
He looks up at me with his mouth still on me, eyes wild and unblinking, like he wants me to break. Like he needs it.
And I do.
I shatter. Back arched, thighs shaking, his name slipping from my lips like prayer and confession and surrender all at once.
When he finally stands, his mouth is glistening, his hands braced on either side of me. His eyes are blown wide, chest rising hard and fast.
And I don’t even think.
I pull him to me, dragging his mouth back to mine, tasting myself on his lips, and knowing this is the moment everything changes.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
“Sugar,” he rasps, undoing the last of his jeans, “my turn’s going to take all night.”
He thrusts his jeans down just enough, just barely, and I gasp at the feel of him hot, hard, thick between us. My thighs part, welcoming the press of him as he crowds back in, his mouth crashing over mine, all tongue and teeth and desperation.
His hands roam like he’s memorizing me, claiming me, one on the back of my neck, the other sliding up my bare waist under the hem of my tank top. I arch into him, hungry for every inch of contact, grinding up against him like I’ll lose my mind if I don’t get more.
“You feel that?” he rasps, hips grinding into mine. “That’s what you do to me.”
I nod, too breathless to speak, tugging him impossibly closer. I can feel how ready he is. Thick and pulsing between my legs, every roll of his hips sending heat ricocheting through my core.
He grabs the base of himself and drags the head along my entrance, slow, teasing, and I shudder.
“Will,” I whisper, nails digging into his back. “Please.”
But just as he lines himself up, just as we both hover on the edge of the point of no return he freezes.
Breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine, he lets out a growl of frustration. “Fuck.”
“What?” I pant, dazed, desperate.
“We shouldn’t.” His voice is rough, pained. “Not like this.”
I blink, trying to find clarity through the haze of lust. “Why?”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, hands still on my hips, still holding me like he’s not ready to let go.
“Because if we do this now, it’s not going to be slow. It’s not going to be careful. And you—” he swallows hard, “you deserve more than me screwing you on the bar like I’ve lost my damn mind.”
“You have lost your damn mind,” I whisper, managing a shaky laugh.
He presses a kiss to my cheek, to the corner of my mouth, then to the hollow of my throat. Slower. Softer. “Yeah. For you.”
Silence swells between us, thick and charged, as we both fight to breathe again.
And then he whispers, “When I have you, Phern, it’s not going to be rushed. It’s not going to be a mistake. It’s going to mean something.”
My chest aches.
Because deep down, I know he’s not stopping because he doesn’t want me. He’s stopping because he does.
“Is this because I’m a virgin?”
“Partly. I want to make it good for you.”
I reach between us, touching him. He groans.
“What are you going to do about this?”
“Take a cold fucking shower.”
“Or,” I drawl. “I can help. But, you’ll have to show me how.”
His eyes darken, sharp and molten all at once.
“Phern,” he warns, voice raw like he’s holding on by a thread.
I wrap my hand around him fully this time, feeling him twitch in my palm. “Show me, Will.”
He groans again and his head falls back for a beat before he looks at me through hooded eyes. “You keep this up, and you’re going to be the one gettin’ a shower.”
I stroke him once, slow. “Fine by me.”
In a flash, his hand closes around my wrist. Not to stop me, but to guide me. His grip is firm, his gaze locked on mine as he lowers both our hands to rest over him.
“Like this,” he murmurs, voice vibrating low in his chest. He moves our joined hands in a steady rhythm, his body shuddering against mine with each pass.