Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Dexter
I can’t believe this is happening. Me and Aly. I never thought I needed someone the way I need her. I wish I could say this is love, but I’m not even sure if that’s what I’m feeling. All I know is that I want her to have everything she wants.
“Tell me what you want,” I rasp against her mouth, my length pulsing inside her, barely holding back.
Her breath stutters. “I just want you. All of you.”
“You have me.”
The words leave before I can stop them, and they’re the truest thing I’ve ever said.
Not sure when this started—this need to belong to her—but it’s here now, anchoring itself in the deepest part of me.
And it’s not just physical. It’s this overwhelming sense that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Like her body was made for mine. Like I’ve spent years trying to silence something in me that only she knows how to answer.
I sink in deeper, slow, measured, watching her fall apart underneath me.
Her lips part on a gasp, and I feel it—how she opens around me, how warm, how wet, how perfect she is. My hands slide under her thighs, lifting her just enough to pull her closer, to feel her tighter.
I swear I could live in this moment—this pressure, this closeness, her name on my tongue and her body wrapped around me.
The way we move together in a rhythm that feels instinctual—like our bodies have known this long before we did.
Like we belonged to each other before the stars ever learned to burn. Before the first breath, before memory.
As if some ancient part of me has been aching for this—for her—since the beginning of time, and only now, finally, has found where it’s meant to rest.
Each slow thrust pulls a soft sound from her lips, and each one unravels something deeper in me. Some lock I didn’t know I had inside my chest starts to come loose.
I can’t look away.
Her eyes, her mouth, the way she moves against me—it’s worship without words, and I’ve never felt so whole.
Her hands roam over my back, her legs wrap around me, pulling me closer like she can’t get enough. Like she needs this, too. Every motion, every whispered plea, winds us tighter.
And fuck—it’s not just sex. It’s her.
It’s this unbearable, beautiful intimacy I didn’t think actually existed. Not for people like me.
I drop my forehead to her shoulder, trying to breathe through how good this feels. How much it feels. How much she makes me feel.
“I want to stay in you,” I murmur, barely able to get the words out, “just like this. Until morning. Maybe forever.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Then do it.”
Fuck.
If I could, I would. I want to make that happen. I want to rewrite every ending I’ve ever lived so this is the one that sticks.
I press deeper, groaning against her neck. Her body takes me like it’s home. Like I was meant to fit here, against her, inside her.
“But if I do,” I whisper, voice breaking, “I’ll ruin you. In the best fucking way.”
She lets out a breathless laugh that shatters something in my chest. “Good. Do it.”
I move faster, losing whatever was left of my restraint.
She meets every thrust with this wild, aching need. Like she wants every last inch of me—body, soul, scars and all—and I give it. Everything I’ve got. Everything I didn’t know I’d been holding back.
She clutches me like I’m hers. Like she knows.
The heat between us builds, deeper and hotter, until it’s all I can feel. Until it’s all I am.
This moment . . . it’s not just lust.
It’s connection. It’s communion.
It’s two broken pieces finally clicking into place.
It’s everything.
It’s us—even if I don’t know what “us” means yet. Even if I’m still terrified of what happens after.
But maybe this—her—is what happiness feels like.
Maybe she’s the closest I’ll ever get to forever.
We don’t stop.
We don’t speak.
We just feel—the rhythm, the breath, the pulse of something larger than both of us carrying us higher.
I reach for her hand, lace our fingers, draw her closer until I can whisper against her ear, “Stay with me. Right here.”
She nods, trembling, already so close I can feel her unraveling around me. But I want her to fall with me.
My hand slips between us, finding her clit, and I touch her the way I know she needs—slow at first, then just right, just enough.
Her gasp catches in her throat. Her body tightens.
“Come with me,” I breathe, voice breaking. “Please.”
And then she does.
Her body arches against mine, her voice catching somewhere between a cry and a prayer.
Watching her fall apart unravels every wall I’ve built. The sight of her like this—free, trusting—splinters something I thought was unbreakable.
I follow her over the edge, the world collapsing into color and sound. My back tightens, breath hitching as the release hits, but it isn’t just pleasure—it’s surrender.
It’s relief.
It’s finding light after years of standing in the dark.
When it fades, I don’t move.
I can’t.
I hold her like she’s the only real thing left.
Like if I loosen my grip even an inch, I’ll lose the miracle of this—of us.
My forehead rests against hers, our breaths tangling, the air between us warm and alive.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m not thinking about the next day, or the fallout, or the silence that always follows.
I’m just here.
With her.
And it feels like coming home.
It’s the silence after a lifetime of noise.
The peace I never knew I was searching for until she pressed her body against mine and every restless part of me finally went still.
Being inside her, holding her now—it feels like I’ve stepped into something meant for me all along. Something that’s been waiting until I was ready to feel it.
My hand cradles her head, thumb tracing the curve of her face, memorizing her in the moonlight.
I can still feel the pulse of her heartbeat against my chest, the tremor of her breath when she exhales my name. It sinks into me, quiet and unrelenting, something I know I’ll crave when she isn’t near.
“Please don’t walk away from this,” I say, voice low and raw, still trembling from everything she just made me feel. “Give me a chance.”
She looks up at me, eyes hazy, lips parted. “I will. I couldn’t walk away even if I tried. But you need to know—I’m not good at this. Letting people in.”
I breathe out, thumb brushing her cheek. “Me neither,” I admit. “But maybe it’s not about being good at it. Maybe it’s about showing up scared and trying anyway. Just . . . trying. And doing our best not to screw it up.”
Her gaze meets mine—vulnerable, wide, afraid.
“You can still change your mind,” I say softly. “About all of this. About me.”
She shakes her head. “That’s not what I want.”
I swallow hard. “Then what do you want?”
She hesitates, the silence stretching until it hurts.
“I’m not sure yet,” she whispers. “But I’m scared of what could happen after this ends.”
I don’t answer right away.
I just hold her face in my hands like she’s something fragile and alive, like she might disappear if I blink too long. Then I kiss her—slow, deep, and honest. A promise without words, one I’m already terrified to break.
“Don’t think about the end,” I whisper against her lips. “Let’s be scared together.”
She nods, barely breathing.
“Just don’t run,” I add, my voice unsteady. “Not from this.”
There’s a beat of silence before she closes her eyes.
She doesn’t promise.
But she doesn’t let go either.
And for now, that’s enough.