Chapter 11
I cross the room before I can second guess it.
Before I can talk myself out of it.
My hands come up, cupping her face, holding her still.
Grounding myself.
Or losing myself.
Not sure which.
“Tell me no, Ezzy,” I say, voice rough, low, dangerous. “Say it.”
Because if she does—I’ll stop.
I will.
I have to.
Because we both need answers before we do this.
We both need the truth—not just me.
And I really want to know we’re standing on the same fucking ground before I risk my heart again.
“Tell. Me. No.”
But if she doesn’t—if she gives me even a second of hesitation—I know I’m not going to stop.
The moment is ripe with indecision.
I hold my breath.
Then, her hands come up, resting on my wrists.
Not pushing.
Not stopping me.
Her breath catches.
And then, she parts her plump lips.
“Please, Benji,” she whispers.
And just like that—everything I’ve been holding back?
Everything I’ve been trying to control?
Gone.
Because I already knew where this was heading the second I saw her again.
I knew I wasn’t strong enough to stop it.
Not with her.
Not when it’s always been her.
And maybe that makes me a fool.
Maybe it makes me reckless.
But right now?
I don’t give a single shit.
Because if I’m wrong? If she’s lying? If this all blows up in my face again?
At least this time?
I’m the one who made the decision.
And until then?
She’s mine to hold. Mine to protect.
Mine.
Just mine.
Even if it’s just for tonight.
The thought hits like a strike of lightning, sharp and final, and I don’t fight it.
I can’t.
I don’t want to.
I crash into her. Crush her lips beneath mine.
My mouth takes hers, hard and hungry, like I’ve been starved for three years and she’s the only thing that’s ever going to feed me again.
She gasps against me, and I swallow the sound, deepening the kiss, angling my head to take more, to feel more, to remind myself she’s real.
Fuck.
She tastes exactly like I remember.
Cinnamon apples.
Sugar.
Sex.
And something darker beneath it all—something that’s always been just hers.
“Fuck, Ezzy,” I rasp into her mouth.
Her hands clutch at me, fingers digging into my arms, my shoulders, like she’s holding on just as hard as I am.
Good, because I’m not letting go.
Not now.
Not tonight.
I haul her against me, arms wrapping around her like I’m claiming her all over again, pressing her soft body into every hard inch of mine.
And Christ—she fits.
Still fits.
Like she was made for me.
Esme is thick. Soft. Curvy in a way that drives me half out of my damn mind.
My hands move without permission, dragging over her sides, her hips, mapping her like I’ve been waiting to relearn every inch.
She arches into me, a soft sound slipping from her lips, and it hits me low—straight to the gut.
To something primal.
Something that’s always belonged to her.
My grip tightens.
“Fuck, Ezzy, I missed you,” I growl, the words ripped out of me before I can stop them.
Her breath catches.
“Benji—” she whimpers my name, but I cut her off with another kiss.
Rougher this time, more desperate.
Because if she says anything else—anything that sounds like doubt or distance—I might lose my nerve.
And I’m done hesitating.
Done holding back.
My body is already there.
Hot. Hard. Ready.
My cock is like steel—but then again it has been ever since she rolled back into my life.
It’s always been like that with her.
Only her.
It’s never felt like this about anyone else.
Never will.
Because this woman?
She owns something in me I don’t even understand.
Something I never got back when she left.
My forehead presses to hers for a split second, both of us breathing hard, the air between us thick with everything we’re not saying.
Everything we should say.
But don’t.
Because this—this is louder than words.
My hands slide lower, gripping her hips, pulling her flush against me so she can feel exactly what she does to me.
Her breath stutters.
Her fingers tighten in my hair.
“You still feel like mine,” I growl, voice rough, almost questioning, like I need to hear it even if I don’t ask.
She doesn’t answer with words.
She leans into me.
Closer.
Choosing me.
And that’s it.
That’s all it takes.
The last thread of control snaps.
I move again, backing her toward the bed, my mouth never leaving hers, my hands never stopping, every touch turning sharper, more urgent.
More needy.
Because this isn’t slow.
This isn’t careful.
This is three years of want crashing down all at once.
My knee hits the edge of the mattress, and I guide her down with me, hovering over her for a second, taking her in—and fuck, my heart squeezes so damn tight I think I might actually die.
She’s so sexy.
Her smooth, flushed skin.
Long, damp hair.
That lust-glazed look in her eyes.
She looks like mine, all right.
“Tell me to stop,” I say again, voice lower now, rougher, like it costs me something to offer it.
Because this is the last chance.
The last line.
And we both know it.
Her gaze softens.
Darkens.
“Don’t,” she whispers.
That’s it.
Game over.
I drop my head, capturing her mouth again as my hands begin to explore with intent—lifting the shirt out of the way, finding her panties with my fingers.
I tear at them.
And I hiss when I feel her fingers working the button and zipper on my too-tight blue jeans.
Esme frees my cock, and she strokes me—once, then twice, before rubbing my tip along her dripping slit.
“You’re fucking soaked for me, aren’t you, Sweetheart?” I groan as I flex my hips, filling her with one deep thrust.
Fuck. She’s tight.
But I don’t want to think about that.
I don’t want to think about how many men she’s had since leaving me, thinking we were divorced.
I don’t let my mind go there.
Don’t let it wander into dark, useless places—into questions that don’t belong in this moment.
Not now.
Not when she’s here.
With me.
I shove those thoughts down hard, where they belong, and focus on what’s real.
On her.
On this.
On the way her breath hitches beneath me, soft and uneven, like she’s just as overwhelmed as I am.
The way her hands tighten on me, fingers digging in like she’s afraid I might disappear again.
That nearly wrecks me.
Because I remember that.
Remember her like this—open, responsive, all feeling and fire beneath the surface.
I groan low as I move, every inch of me locking in place for a second like my body’s trying to memorize the feel of her all over again.
Christ.
She’s so warm. So soft. Smooth in all the right places, wrapped around me in a way that feels achingly familiar and completely new at the same time.
My jaw clenches.
My forehead drops to hers, our breaths tangling, heat building between us in waves that don’t let up.
“Ezzy,” I rasp, her name rough in my throat.
My mouth trails lower, slower now but no less hungry, tasting, claiming, reacquainting myself with everything I lost.
Her body answers me before she does, shifting beneath me, drawing me closer without words.
Just instinct.
Just need.
And it hits me all at once—how much I missed this.
Missed her.
Missed the way everything else fades when I’m with her, like the world narrows down to just this space, this moment, this connection.
My hands move over her again, slower now, like I’m reacquainting myself with something I should’ve never lost in the first place.
She reacts instantly.
Just like I remember.
Just like I never forgot.
And it nearly undoes me.
Because this isn’t just physical.
It never was.
It’s deeper than that.
Always has been.
And being here again—with her beneath me, around me, choosing me—yeah, that’s the part that hits the hardest.
I angle my hips, and I sink even deeper into her hot sex. Her sheath tightens, and fuck me, I need to come.
But not yet.
I reach between us, rubbing circles around her tight little clit. Just around the edge, but never quite touching her there.
And yeah, I know she wants it.
Esme whimpers, her thighs tighten around my hips.
My balls squeeze, but I’m not coming without her.
I reach between us, letting my hand settle low on her body, not giving her what she wants right away.
Not yet.
Not when I can feel her already trembling for it.
Control.
That’s what this is about.
Mine.
Hers.
And I need it—need to hold onto something steady when everything inside me is threatening to spiral.
Esme whimpers, her thighs tightening around me, pulling me in like she’s afraid I’ll disappear again.
That sound—fuck.
It goes straight through me.
My body reacts instantly, every nerve ending firing, every instinct screaming to take, to claim, to lose control.
But I don’t.
I won’t.
Not yet.
Because I’ve already lost her once.
I’m not wasting this.
I’m not letting it slip through my fingers again without knowing—without being sure.
“You keep squeezing me like that…” I grind out, voice rough, barely held together, “this is gonna be over faster than I want it to be.”
She smiles.
Actually smiles.
Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
Like she remembers.
Her fingers slide into my hair, nails dragging down my back, and something dark and possessive rears up inside me.
Mine.
That thought hits hard.
Too hard.
I don’t push it away this time.
I lean into it.
Because if she’s here—if she came back—if she’s looking at me like that again—then I need to know.
Need to see it.
Need to feel it.
Her hands slide over my back, pulling me closer, urging me on, and the need that’s been coiled tight in my chest since she walked back into my life snaps wide open.
There’s no room for doubt here.
No room for questions.
Just us.
Just this.
Just now.
And I take it.
All of it.
Because whatever comes next?
Whatever truth we uncover?
Whatever damage we still have to face?
Right now?
She’s here.
She’s in my arms.
And for the first time in three long fucking years—she’s mine again.
I look down at her, really look this time.
Flushed skin.
Lips parted.
Eyes heavy and locked on mine like there’s nowhere else she wants to be.