Chapter 30 #2
“Wait,” he whispers, strained and wrecked, like he’s trying to stop the world from tipping over. “Fuck. Wait.”
“What—”
“No condom,” he rasps. “I didn’t—shit. I didn’t put it on.”
He still doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even breathe. And neither do I. I don’t want him to go, but also I’m not sure what to expect if he stays.
The tip of him is still inside me, hot and insistent, and it’s like my body has already molded to him, already claimed him. Every nerve is screaming not to stop.
“Fuck,” he groans, pressing his forehead to my shoulder. His voice breaks on the next words. “You feel so fucking good. I wasn’t thinking. I can’t think when I’m with you. It’s like everything else disappears.”
“I know,” I whisper, my fingers running up the tense line of his back. “It’s okay. Go get it.”
He pulls out with a strangled sound, like leaving me physically hurts. And even though it was only the tip, I feel the loss everywhere. Deep. Raw. Immediate.
“I was about to lose it in thirty seconds,” he says, trying to smile but his voice is wrecked.
A shaky laugh breaks out of me. “Thirty seconds?”
“I was being generous,” he mutters, and then kisses me—fast, desperate, like it’s the only thing keeping him from completely unraveling.
When he moves off the bed, the air between us crackles with what almost was. What’s about to be.
He yanks open the nightstand drawer, movements jerky, fingers fumbling through the mess until he finds a foil packet.
He stares at it like it’s the only thing keeping him from sin.
He tears the wrapper and then he rolls the condom on, his cock still hard, flushed, slick from almost being inside me, from everything we didn’t finish.
And when he turns back to me, the look in his eyes changes everything.
Gone is the teasing. The restraint.
What’s left is need.
Raw. Starved. Consuming.
He climbs onto the bed like he owns it—like he owns me—like this is the moment he’s been holding back for, and he’s done pretending he can wait any longer.
He bends and kisses my inner thigh again, slower this time, more reverent than teasing. Then he lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock through my slickness, coating himself in the mess he made of me. He doesn’t rush.
He just watches me.
Watching the way my body arches for him, the way I tremble beneath his touch, the way I’m already whispering his name like a prayer.
And then—he pushes in.
Not just the tip this time.
All of him.
Every inch. Every breath-stealing, soul-breaking inch.
And I take it. All of it.
“You okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, strained like it costs him to stay still.
I nod, my legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, pulling him closer, holding him there. “Please.”
But he doesn’t move—not yet.
Instead, he looks down at me, brushing my hair away from my face like I’m fragile and he doesn’t trust himself not to break me. “I’ve never wanted anyone like this.”
I blink up at him, throat tight. “Say it again.”
“I’ve never wanted anyone like this.” His voice cracks, the words landing low and raw. “It’s fucking terrifying.”
His hand presses to the center of my chest, feeling my heartbeat. As if looking for it’s rhythm.
“You’re not the only one scared,” I whisper, lifting a hand to cup the back of his neck, grounding both of us.
He’s still inside me—thick, long, filling me completely—and yet neither of us is moving, like this connection, this moment, is somehow more than just physical. Like it’s everything.
His forehead rests against mine, and when he speaks again, it’s softer. Real.
“I think about what it’d mean to have you,” he says, breath catching.
“Really have you. Not just like this, but every morning. Every night. Sharing coffee. Fighting over the last tortilla during the weekends you let me bring you here. Picking a song together when we drive. Laughing. Making this . . . more.”
I swallow hard. “You’d get tired of me.”
His jaw tenses, and for a beat he doesn’t answer. He just stays there—inside me, above me, surrounding me with heat and weight and something that feels dangerously like love.
“Never.” His voice hardens, then softens again, like just saying the word cracked something open inside him. “You’d be the first thing I’ve never tired of.”
He pulls back, slow and aching, until we’re barely connected—then thrusts back in, deeper than before, like he’s reentering something he lost and never thought he’d find again.
“Mine,” he breathes, the word guttural, reverent.
He moves again, a rhythm that’s more than hunger. It’s purpose. It’s possession. It’s him spelling it out with every push of his hips, every low moan against my skin.
“You’re mine,” he repeats, quieter now, like it’s not just a claim but a confession. “In every way. Soul first. Body after. I don’t care how long it takes, I’ll earn all of you.”
And everything else falls away.
The night.
The sound of the waves.
Even the air between us.
There’s only this—his body against mine, his mouth at my neck, his heart breaking wide open with every thrust like he’s trying to bury something sacred inside me and call it home.
Even the air.
All that’s left is him—inside me, around me, above me.
And me—finally letting go of every doubt.
Every fear.
Every voice that told me I’m too much or not enough.
He thrusts again—deeper, rougher, dragging a moan out of my throat that I didn’t know was there. He groans, lips finding mine in a kiss that’s as much desperation as it is devotion.