44. Chapter 44 #2
“No.” I shake my head, grabbing at his bicep, forcing him back around.
“I chose it, Boss. I couldn’t watch you hurt anymore.
I couldn’t watch you spin your wheels, not getting anywhere no matter how hard you tried, how much you wanted to help your family.
I just couldn’t. This way, I know your mom gets a chance. ”
His hands drag down his face. “And what about what I want, Skye? You think I give a shit about chances if it means losing you? Even the little bit I get of you is more than I…” He trails off with a desperate groan.
“Boss,” I whisper, stepping close enough to rest my hand over his racing heart.
His breath catches beneath my palm.
“I’m here.” I swallow against the tightness in my throat. “Right now, I’m here. With you.”
My voice breaks—everything inside me unraveling at once.
“And I love you.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
He stills. Completely. Like the entire world just stopped turning.
His eyes hold mine, wide and disbelieving, as though he’s waiting for me to take it back.
“I love you,” I say again, softer this time. Maybe if I say it gently enough, it won’t destroy… everything.
One second there’s space between us and the next Boston is hauling me against him, kissing me like he doesn’t know whether to celebrate or grieve—like relief and heartbreak and love all live in the same place.
His mouth claims mine with a desperation that steals the air from my lungs.
And I kiss him back just as fiercely.
He groans into the kiss, a rough, wrecked sound that vibrates through me. Need surges, pooling—hot and aching—low in my stomach.
He grips the backs of my thighs and lifts me effortlessly. I wrap myself around him, unwilling to let go again.
“Stormy,” he breathes against my mouth.
We stumble into the wall with a soft thud.
I laugh shakily against his lips.
He rests his forehead against mine, his breathing ragged. “Sorry,” he says. “Guess I don’t know what to do with you telling me… that you love me.”
I only smile. “You’re gonna have to figure it out, Boss.”
“Guess so,” he breathes. Still holding me, he starts across the living room.
We make it exactly three steps before his mouth crashes to mine again.
“Fuck,” he groans against my lips.
“Bedroom?” I squeak.
He presses another kiss to my mouth. “I’m fucking trying.”
We don’t even make it to the couch.
Instead, he drops to his knees, bringing me down with him. We end up tangled on the carpet, all frantic hands and breathless laughter that dissolves into desperate want and needy kisses.
My clothes disappear piece by piece, while I manage only to relieve him of his shirt. I drink in the sculpted, unyielding planes of his chest and stomach.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough. “Tell me now.”
“Don’t you dare,” I whimper.
He peels my panties down my thighs.
“You’re unreal, Stormy,” he groans, voice raw and ragged as he presses my thighs open. “So beautiful.”
His mouth trails down my body between my breasts, across my stomach, until he’s hovering there, breath hot against where I need him most.
He glances up at me, eyes dark with hunger, but searching.
I whimper, nodding.
And then he buries his face between my thighs and devours me with the same reverence as yesterday, like my body is something precious, something to be cherished instead of owned.
The pleasure builds fast—the heat and pressure familiar now, but still just as overwhelming—and only minutes later, I shatter. Boston’s name tumbles from my lips in broken pieces as pleasure rolls through me until I’m left shaking beneath him, utterly undone.
But even as I try to catch my breath, reaching for him with trembling hands, I know.
It’s not enough.
Not because what he gave me wasn’t, but because I want all of him.
I want him woven into every part of me, absorbed into every cell.
Boston lifts his head, his own need written all over his face—from his half-lidded gaze to the high flush on his cheeks to his parted lips glistening with my arousal.
“I want you,” I whisper. “I want to feel you. All of you. Please.”
He doesn’t move, something vulnerable flickering across his face.
Then he shakes his head once. “No,” he says. “Not here. Not like this.”
My brow furrows, but before I can protest, he gathers me against his chest—his skin so warm, so soft—and stands.
I wrap my arms around his neck automatically. “What are you—”
But he’s already moving, striding toward his bedroom. Past the fake orchid sitting on the counter. Toward the bed with the comforter we picked out together and the throw pillows I insisted he needed.
He lowers me onto his bed so gently, it’s as if I was made from glass.
“You deserve softness,” he says, his gaze dragging down my naked body, fresh heat flaring behind his gray irises. “You deserve to be worshiped. And I want to remember this.”
I swallow, my eyes following every move of his hands as he unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down his hips, stripping the last pieces of clothing from his body.
He’s perfect. His sculpted chest, his taut arms, his… length—thick, hard, and breathtaking. I swallow, suddenly so aware of where this moment is headed.
And god, I want it.
Slowly, he climbs onto the bed, settling between my thighs.
“You’re sure?” he breathes.
I only nod, convinced the only sound I’d be able to force out is a desperate whimper.
He nods once, then reaches into his nightstand, retrieving a condom.
“Oh, I’m… on birth control.”
Boston’s gaze drops to the condom in his hand. A shadow crosses his expression before it’s gone.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “But I can’t take any risks with you.” His gaze finds mine again. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened because I wasn’t careful.”
So I nod and watch with lustful eyes as Boston skillfully rolls the condom onto himself.
“Stormy,” he rasps. “Tell me to stop if—”
“Oh my god, stop torturing me,” I breathe, fingers pressing into his sides. “Please… I need you.”
He chuckles, but finally—god, finally—lowers himself between my thighs. I feel the hard length of him slide against my slick skin, the blunt head brushing my clit and pulling a gasp from my throat. He groans, low and guttural, then shifts his hips, lining himself up before easing inside me.
Boston moves carefully, like he knows he's asking my body to accommodate all of him, giving me time to adjust while I hover on that exquisite edge between too much and not enough.
My back arches, a whimper catching in my chest as he finally sinks into me. My hands tighten on him as the stretch turns into something intoxicating.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice strained. “Skye. Please. Look at me.”
I open my eyes and meet his. The heat there is enough to set me ablaze.
He sinks deeper still, inch by inch, until he bottoms out with a groan, his gaze never leaving mine. For a moment, we just breathe each other in, our bodies locked, our hearts hammering in sync.
“Okay?” he rasps, his thumb brushing along my jaw.
“Perfect,” I breathe, and then I roll my hips, just enough to make him shudder.
That’s all it takes.
He begins to thrust—deep, long strokes—slow at first, eyes fixed to my face, gauging my reaction to him. And I try to stay with him, try not to lose myself just yet, but the weight of him, his scent, the way he moves inside me is so intoxicating that my eyes fall shut.