Chapter 9
Phil
All I feel is her.
Her mouth. Her breath. Her hands. The warmth of her body pressed against mine like she belongs there.
Like she’s always belonged there.
The kiss deepens without urgency, without hesitation. It isn’t frantic. It isn’t uncertain. It’s deliberate. Each movement of her lips against mine feels like a decision being made.
My hands rest at her waist at first, steady, grounding myself in the reality of her. The softness beneath my fingers. The heat of her through the thin fabric of her shirt.
She shifts closer.
The movement is small.
Devastating.
Her hips brush against me, and my body answers immediately, instinctively, with no interest in patience or restraint. I inhale sharply against her mouth, and she makes a quiet sound that goes straight through me.
My hands slide lower before I can stop myself, settling against her hips, then further still, cupping her gently, testing the boundary.
She presses into me.
Permission.
Encouragement.
My control slips another inch.
I lift her without breaking the kiss, my hands firm beneath her as she responds instantly, wrapping herself around me like she trusts me not to let her fall.
I don’t.
I never will.
Her fingers slide into my hair, holding me close as I carry her toward the stairs. Every step feels unreal. Like I’m walking inside something fragile and impossible.
She pulls back just long enough to breathe.
Her lips find my ear.
“I need you,” she whispers.
Those three simple words are enough to make my hard cock strain painfully against my zip.
I stop in the hallway, pressing her gently against the wall, my hands framing her, not trapping her but holding her there because I need to know she’s real.
She reaches for me again, pulling me back into the kiss before the moment can overwhelm me completely.
This time, I respond without hesitation.
My hands explore carefully, reverently, learning the shape of her. Not rushing. Not claiming. Discovering.
She makes another soft sound, and it fuels something in me I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.
I carry her the rest of the way upstairs.
The bedroom feels different with her in it. Smaller. Fuller. Real.
I lower her onto the bed carefully, unwilling to break contact for even a second longer than necessary.
She looks up at me, her hair spread across the mattress, her breathing uneven, her eyes searching mine for hesitation that never comes.
I lean over her, kissing her again, slower now. Deeper. Letting myself exist fully inside the moment instead of watching it from a distance.
Her hands move across my back, my shoulders, anchoring me.
Encouraging me.
Every instinct that once told me to pull away is silent.
There is only her.
Only this.
I stop just long enough to rest my forehead against hers.
“Are you sure?” I ask quietly.
Not because I doubt her.
Because I respect her.
Her fingers slide along my jaw, steady and certain.
“Yes.”
The word settles inside me like truth.
My lips find hers again, and this time, there is nothing left of the version of myself who runs.
Only the man who stays.
My hands settle at her waist, and the warmth of her skin beneath my palms feels different now. Warmer than mine. Softer in a way that makes my chest tighten. My thumbs trace slow circles along her sides, learning the gentle curve of her, the strength beneath softness.
Her skin smells faintly of something sweet and familiar and new all at once. Not perfume. Something natural. Something warm. Like sunshine held close.
I turn us on the mattress and drag her onto my lap, her thighs straddling mine, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders.
She’s so small like this, petite and warm, her weight settled against me like she belongs there.
I cup her chin, gently tilting her head back just enough to expose the long line of her throat.
Fuck, her neck. I’ve thought about this so many times—the way her pulse would flutter under my lips, the way she’d gasp if I bit down just right.
I don’t wait. I press my mouth to the sensitive skin beneath her ear, breathing her in.
She smells like vanilla and something richer, something uniquely her, and it goes straight to my head.
My lips trail down, slow and deliberate, tasting her.
She arches into me, a soft sound escaping her—half moan, half sigh—and her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Phil,” she breathes again, and this time it’s not a question. It’s a plea.
I answer by kissing her. Not the hesitant, testing presses from before, but deep and hungry, my tongue sliding against hers.
She opens for me instantly, her mouth hot and wet, her taste intoxicating.
I groan into her, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her closer until she’s pressed flush against me, until I can feel the heat of her through the thin fabric of her leggings, the hard ridge of my cock trapped between us.
She rocks against me, just once, and the friction makes my vision blur.
“Fuck,” I rasp against her lips. “Christina—”
“Shh.” Her fingers press to my mouth, silencing me. Her eyes are dark, her pupils blown wide. “Just—touch me.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
My hands slide under her shirt, my palms skimming up the smooth expanse of her back.
Her skin is so soft, so warm, and she shivers again as I trace the line of her spine, my thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts.
She’s not wearing a bra. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I groan, my cock throbbing painfully.
“You’re killing me,” I mutter, my voice rough.
She laughs, low and breathless, her nails scraping lightly over my scalp. “Good.”
I pull back just enough to meet her gaze, my hands still beneath her shirt, my thumbs now circling her nipples. They’re hard, pebbled under my touch, and she bites her lip, her eyelids fluttering.
“You like that?” I murmur, rolling them between my fingers, pinching just enough to make her gasp.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t. I keep touching her, teasing her, my mouth finding her neck again, my teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her jaw.
She moans, her body arching into mine, her hips rolling in slow, deliberate circles against my cock.
The friction is maddening, the denim of my jeans rough against the softness of her leggings, but I don’t dare move my hands from her breasts.
Not when she’s making sounds like that—not when her nails are digging into my shoulders, her breath coming in sharp, needy gasps.
“Phil, please,” she whimpers, her voice breaking.
I know what she wants. My fingers itch to find out just how ready she is, to slide inside her and feel her clench around me.
But not yet.
I want to savour this. Want to memorise every sound she makes, every way her body reacts to mine.
I pull her shirt over her head, tossing it aside. She’s bare, her breasts full and heavy, her nipples dark and tight. My mouth waters.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, my hands cupping her, my thumbs brushing over her nipples again. “So beautiful.”
She whimpers, her head falling back as I lean in, my tongue flicking over one tight peak before I draw it into my mouth. She tastes like salt and something sweet, like caramel and sin, and I suck harder, my free hand sliding down to grip her hip, holding her still as she writhes against me.
“Phil—oh fuck—” Her fingers tangle in my hair, her back arching, pushing her breast deeper into my mouth. I lavish attention on her, switching between her nipples, nipping and soothing with my tongue until she’s panting, her thighs trembling around mine.
My hand slides down, my fingers tracing the waistband of her leggings before slipping beneath. She’s smooth, bare, and soaked. My fingers glide through her folds easily, her wetness coating them, and she moans brokenly as I find her clit, circling it with just the right amount of pressure.
“You’re wet,” I growl against her skin, my lips trailing up her throat to her ear. “All for me.” I don’t know where this confidence is coming from but in this moment, I know exactly what I want.
“Yes,” she gasps, her hips bucking against my hand. “Only you.”
The words send a jolt of possessive heat through me. I slide one finger inside her, then another, curling them just right, and she cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to hurt.
She rocks against my hand, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body tightening around my fingers. I can feel her getting closer, her muscles fluttering, her wetness coating my hand.
“Phil, I’m—I’m gonna—”
“I know,” I murmur, my lips against her throat. “Let go, Christina. Come for me.”
She does. With a broken cry, her body clenches around my fingers, her back arching as she comes. I keep my fingers buried inside her, drawing out every last tremor, my cock so hard it’s painful.
When she finally slumps against me, boneless and breathing heavily, I pull my hand free, bringing my fingers to my mouth. Her eyes lock onto me as I suck them clean, tasting her—sweet and musky and mine.
“Fuck,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “That was—”
“I know,” I say, my voice rough. I don’t let her finish. Instead, I kiss her again, slower this time, deeper. Letting myself feel everything instead of holding it at a distance.
My hand slides along her thigh, and she responds instantly, arching into the touch. Her breath shudders, my name falling from her lips again, softer now.
The sound anchors me.
For so long, I’ve lived inside hesitation. Inside caution. Inside the constant expectation that I would misstep, misunderstand, lose something before I even realised I had it.
But here, with her, there is no uncertainty.
She meets me without fear. Without doubt.
Her fingers trace the line of my shoulders, my back, learning me the way I am learning her. Not demanding. Not rushing.
Her warmth surrounds me completely now. Her presence. Her trust. And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m about to lose something.
I feel like I’ve finally found it.
I roll us again, my body covering hers. She spreads her thighs for me, welcoming me, and I settle between them, my cock pressing against her through my jeans.
She’s still dressed from the waist down, her leggings clinging to her hips, and I hook my fingers into the waistband, dragging them down her legs along with her knickers.
She’s bare. Smooth. Glistening.
I groan, my control fraying.
“Phil,” she whispers, her hands sliding up my chest, her fingers working at the buttons of my shirt. “I need you. Now.”
I don’t argue. I strip my shirt off, tossing it aside, and then I’m kicking off my jeans, my boxers, my cock springing free, thick and leaking. Christina’s eyes drop to it, her tongue wetting her lips, and the sight of her looking at me like that—like she’s starving—nearly undoes me.
I reach for the nightstand, fumbling for a condom, but she stops me, her hand wrapping around my wrist.
“No,” she says, her voice firm. “I want to feel you. All of you.”
I freeze. “Christina—”
“I’m clean,” she says, her gaze steady. “And I’m on the pill. I trust you.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Trust. That’s what this is. That’s what she is.
I don’t answer with words. Instead, I line myself up at her entrance, the head of my cock pressing against her slick heat. She’s so wet, so ready, and when I push inside, it’s like coming home.
We both groan, the sound raw and needy. She’s tight—so tight—and her body stretches around me, her inner walls clenching like a fist. I bury myself to the hilt, my hips flush against hers, and for a moment, I just breathe.
She feels perfect. Better than perfect.
“Phil,” she whispers, her legs wrapping around my waist, her heels digging into my arse. “Move. Please.”
I do.
I pull back slowly, savouring the drag of her body against mine, the way her nails score down my back as I sink into her again.
Her breath hitches, her lips parting on a silent moan, and I do it again.
And again. Each thrust deep and measured, my cock dragging against her walls, her wetness coating me, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room.
Her hands are everywhere—gripping my shoulders, raking down my back, tangling in my hair as I kiss her, my mouth crashing against hers. She kisses me back just as desperately, her tongue tangling with mine, her moans spilling into my mouth.
I can feel her getting closer again, her body tightening around me, her breath coming in sharp, needy gasps.
“Phil… I’m close again. So close.”
“Do it,” I growl, my voice rough. “Let me feel you.”
She does. With a cry, her body clenches around me, her back lifting off the bed as her orgasm crashes over her. The pulse of her walls around my cock is too much—I can’t hold back.
With a groan, I bury myself deep and come, my release spilling inside her in hot, thick pulses. She whimpers, her body milking me, drawing out every last drop until I’m spent, my forehead pressed to hers, our breath mingling between us.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. I’m still inside her, my cock softening slowly, her legs still wrapped around me. Her fingers trace idle patterns on my back, her touch light, almost reverent.
I lift my head just enough to meet her gaze. Her eyes are soft, her lips swollen from my kisses, and when she smiles, it’s like the sun breaking through clouds.
“Hey,” she murmurs.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice rough.
She reaches up, her thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “That was…”
“I know,” I say, because there are no words for this. For her.
She pulls me down for another kiss, slow and deep, her tongue sliding against mine. And as I kiss her back, my hand finding hers, our fingers intertwining, I realise something:
For the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of what comes next.
Because whatever it is… I want it with her.