Ellery #2
The world outside faded: no cameras, no expectations, no lines we weren’t supposed to cross. Just his heartbeat against mine and the dizzy, terrifying truth of how much I wanted him.
When we finally broke apart, foreheads resting together, both of us were breathing hard. His thumb brushed my cheek, tender in a way that made my chest ache.
“This shouldn’t feel…” I whispered.
He smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “Maybe it’s supposed to.”
And just like that, everything else—fear, doubt, reason—fell away. There was only the warmth of his breath and the quiet promise of something that had already gone too deep to name.
His mouth found mine again, the kiss unhurried but certain. The world shrank to the soft rasp of breath and the rhythmic drum of my pulse echoing in my ribs. Every time I thought he’d stop, he deepened it—careful, steady, asking, promising.
He drew back just long enough for his thumb to trace the corner of my mouth. His eyes darkened.
I nodded. Words didn’t belong here; they’d only make the moment clumsy.
He gathered me with the same confidence he showed on the field, strong arms sliding around my waist. The motion felt effortless, almost reverent.
The room tilted, shadows shifting as he carried me through the narrow doorway toward the darker end of the apartment.
I could feel the slow rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against mine.
The small bedroom glowed in amber light from the window, the town stretching far below. He set me down as though I might shatter and stepped back half a pace, eyes studying me like he was memorizing a painting.
He reached for the undone tie still hanging loose around his collar. One sharp tug, and the dark silk slid free. Buttons followed, one after another, until his shirt hung open.
I’d seen him in training gear a hundred times, but this was different.
No spotlight, no crowd—just quiet strength, the play of muscle catching faint light with every breath.
His body looked carved by use rather than ego—lean planes, a narrow ridge of muscle tracing down his stomach.
My hand itched to follow it before my mind managed to find any permission.
He bent low, closing the small space between us. When his lips caught mine this time it wasn’t a question; it was an answer. The contact seared through the chill that had lived in me for months, melting all the places loneliness had settled.
My hands moved before I realized it. I touched his chest, feeling warmth and the quick thud beneath skin. His breath hitched—a small sound, human and honest. He caught my wrist gently, turning it so his lips brushed the pulse at its center.
The sleeve of my gown slipped down my shoulder; he caught it, fingers firm but patient, guiding the fabric away. His mouth traced the path it left—bare skin, the curve of my collarbone, the line of my throat. The gentleness undid me more than haste ever could.
I curled my fingers into his hair, the world spinning in slow circles around that single point of connection.
Bits of silk and fabric tangled underfoot, falling away without either of us noticing.
It wasn’t about urgency—it was about trust, the quiet discovery that we’d both been holding our breath for far too long.
He whispered my name once more, barely audible against my skin, and something inside me settled. For the first time in longer than I could remember, I stopped measuring right or wrong. I simply breathed—and let myself feel alive.
He kissed me again, slower this time, as if the world might end if he moved too fast. Every brush of his lips felt like an apology and a promise. His hands found my face first, tracing the edge of my jaw, my throat, the curve of my shoulder—as if he needed to learn me by touch, one inch at a time.
I tugged at his open shirt until it fell away. He didn’t rush. Every movement between us was deliberate, careful, reverent. The sound of fabric sliding away filled the quiet—soft, steady, almost ceremonial.
He looked at me like I was something sacred, something fragile he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold. My breath caught, not from nerves, but from the weight of it—the way his eyes made me feel seen in a way that was almost unbearable.
“Beckett,” I whispered, and it came out as both plea and prayer.
He pressed his forehead to mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Then his mouth found the place just below my ear, tracing a line down my neck that left my pulse in shambles. His hands followed, mapping me like he meant to memorize the journey. Every touch pulled me further from reason until I couldn’t tell where the air ended and I began.
It wasn’t about possession. It wasn’t about escape. It was the quiet reverence of two people who’d been holding their breath for too long.
When his lips met mine again, it wasn’t hunger—it was worship. The kind that asked nothing and offered everything. I melted beneath it, letting him unravel me one heartbeat at a time.
His mouth left mine, trailing lower with a slowness that made my breath catch. The air was warm where his lips had been, and I shivered as he kissed his way down my throat, my collarbone, the hollow between my breasts. Every press of his mouth sent a jolt through me, like sparks tracing my veins.
He took his time. There was no rush, no urgency—just the deliberate, maddening path of his lips, his tongue, the scrape of his stubble against my skin. My fingers curled into the sheets beneath me, knuckles white, as he finally reached my breasts.
The first touch of his mouth there made me gasp.
He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask. He just took, his lips closing around one nipple, his tongue hot and sure.
My back arched off the bed without meaning to, a sound tearing from my throat that didn’t even sound like me.
His free hand found my other breast, thumb circling, fingers gentle but firm.
The contrast—soft and rough, slow and demanding—made my head spin.
I tangled my hands in his hair, not to guide him, just to hold on. His name left my lips in a broken whisper, and he answered with a low sound against my skin, something between a groan and a growl. The vibration of it sent another wave of heat through me.
His mouth moved to my other breast, giving it the same attention, the same slow, worshipful focus. I could feel the wetness between my thighs, the ache building there, but he didn’t rush. He took his time, like he wanted to memorize every reaction, every sound I made.
When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his eyes dark. He looked at me for a long moment, like he was making sure I was still with him. Then his hand slid down my stomach, fingers tracing the line of my hip before slipping between my thighs.
The first touch made me jerk. He didn’t say anything, just groaned, low and rough. “Fuck, Ellery. You’re soaked.”
I couldn’t answer. My breath came in short, sharp gasps as his fingers explored me, slow at first, then deeper, finding the rhythm that made my hips lift off the bed. His thumb circled my clit, and I whimpered, my body tightening around his fingers.
“You like that?” His voice was rough, his breath hot against my thigh.
I nodded, unable to form words. He didn’t need them. He could feel how my body responded, how I trembled under his touch.
Then he was gone, shifting down the bed, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading them wider.
The first touch of his tongue was almost too much.
I cried out, my fingers twisting in the sheets as he tasted me, slow and deep.
There was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just the relentless, perfect pressure of his mouth, his tongue, the scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs.
I couldn’t think. I couldn’t do anything but feel—his hands holding me open, his mouth working me, the way my body responded to every flick, every suck, every slow, deliberate stroke.
The sounds I made were embarrassingly loud, but I didn’t care.
Nothing existed outside this room, outside the heat of his mouth and the way my body coiled tighter and tighter under his touch.
His fingers joined his tongue, curling inside me, finding the spot that made my vision blur. I was so close, so close—
“Beckett—” His name broke from me, desperate.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t let up. He just kept going, his mouth and fingers working in perfect rhythm, until the world narrowed to a single, blinding point of pleasure.
My orgasm crashed over me, wave after wave, my body shuddering under his touch.
He didn’t pull away, just slowed, letting me ride it out, his hands gripping my hips like he was the only thing keeping me from floating away.
When I finally collapsed back against the bed, boneless and breathless, he kissed his way back up my body, his lips finding mine again. I could taste myself on him, and it should have been embarrassing, but it wasn’t. It was just us—raw, real, and finally, finally ours.