Ivy
Hampton, Virginia
I pull back just enough to look at him, my fingers tracing slowly along his jaw, feeling the tension there. “I want you,” I whisper, the confidence in my voice surprising even me.
Something shifts in his expression, restraint cracking, control slipping just enough for heat to flash openly across his handsome face. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he murmurs, voice already rough.
I press closer, fitting myself against him, and the solid length of him against my stomach steals the breath from my lungs. His hands settle firmly at my hips, grounding me as I roll slowly against him, testing, learning the feel of him through too many layers.
His palms slide beneath my shirt again, warm and steady as they skim the curve of my ribs. His thumbs trace slowly upward until the subtle movement pulls a quiet shiver from me.
He helps me lift the oversized T-shirt over my head, his knuckles brushing my waist as the fabric disappears.
His gaze lingers on the dark green lace stretched across my skin, appreciative in a way that makes heat pool low in my stomach.
When his hand finally cups me through the thin fabric, his thumb dragging slowly across my nipple, the soft friction sends a sharp pulse of awareness through me.
I inhale softly against his mouth, instinctively pressing closer.
His exhale is unsteady. “Ivy.” His voice tight with restraint. “You’re driving me insane.”
I smile faintly and pull his shirt over his head, my breath catching at the sight of him. Defined muscle moves beneath warm skin, strength evident even in stillness.
He has one tattoo, it’s placed on his heart, leading up toward his collarbone.
It’s a detailed depiction of a missing man flyover, one I’m sure is meant to represent Ryan after they lost him last year.
It’s beautiful. He’s beautiful. I trace the ink with my fingertips before letting my hand drift lower, following the subtle ridges of his stomach as the muscles there tighten under my touch.
His mouth curves slightly. “Careful. I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
I kiss him deeper this time, slow at first, then with more intention.
My hands slide over his shoulders, down his chest, learning the feel of him beneath my palms. His fingers tighten at my hips as I shift closer, the unmistakable hardness of him pressing between my thighs now, impossible to ignore.
“You can touch me,” I say, as my fingers hook lightly at the waistband of his jeans, the small contact drawing a visible tightening through his stomach as his eyes lift to mine. “I certainly plan on touching you.” I pull back to look at his face.
His eyes darken instantly. “I’m trying very hard to be patient with you.”
“Why?” I breathe.
“Because once I start,” he says quietly, “I’m not stopping.” The promise sends heat spiraling through me. “Let’s go to my room.”
I nod, attempting to gracefully climb off and instead losing my balance and falling onto him.
He catches me easily, laughs, and kisses me again before helping me up.
I let him lead us into his room, acutely aware of the warmth of his hand resting at the small of my back, the subtle guiding pressure keeping me close enough that our bodies brush with each step.
It’s moody. Dark blue walls, three huge windows framed with gauzy cream-colored curtains and medium-toned wooden furniture.
A large TV is mounted on the wall above a dresser opposite his bed.
His bed is made, which doesn’t surprise me knowing Dalton, with a fluffy rust-colored duvet that looks extremely comfortable and matching pillows.
“Lila helped me,” he explains when he sees me studying his bed. “She helped me redo my entire room before you and Hadley moved in.”
I stare up at him. “Why?”
He looks like he’s debating telling me the reason, but then opens his mouth. “I hoped one day you’d see it, but I was never going to push. I’ve just been hoping for a while.”
I can’t help my smile. “You’re adorable.”
He scoffs, pretending to look offended. “Just what any man wants to hear when he shows an incredibly beautiful and half-naked woman his room.”
I burst into laughter, reaching for him. “What would you like me to say? Both you and your room are very sexy, please take me to bed?”
“Yes, actually. That’s much better,” he says in mock seriousness. Then, in one smooth movement, he lifts me easily, guiding me back toward the bed, never breaking eye contact.
I sink into the cloud-like mattress, watching it dip as he braces himself above me, his arms caging me in without quite touching, and feel the anticipation coil tighter with every passing second. His hands move slowly, deliberately, skimming along my sides, up my waist, across my hips.
I arch slightly into him, unable to stop myself from seeking more contact, more closeness.
“I’ve only ever been with Kyler,” I whisper softly, the admission slipping out between breaths. It feels important that he knows, not as hesitation, but as honesty.
Dalton stills for a fraction of a second, gaze searching mine. There’s no judgment there. No disappointment. Just heat. “Thank you for telling me,” he says quietly. The gentleness in his voice only makes the moment feel more intimate.
I trace the lines of his tattoo again, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath my touch. “I didn’t tell you so you’d stop. I just wanted you to know.”
“Ivy, unless you tell me to, I have zero intention of stopping.”
His mouth claims mine again, deeper now, slower, every kiss more deliberate than the last. His lips trail along my throat, his teeth grazing lightly once, the sensation sending a jolt of heat straight through me.
My fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to earn a quiet sound from him that feels dangerously satisfying.
His hand slides along my thigh, pushing it higher around his waist, pressing me fully against him. The friction pulls a soft gasp from my lips, my hips shifting instinctively, seeking more. “You like that?” he murmurs against my mouth, voice low.
“Yes,” I breathe, dropping a soft kiss on his shoulder. The word feels like stepping forward without fear.
His forehead rests briefly against mine, his eyes searching my face one last time, like he’s committing the moment to memory. When I don’t hesitate or pull back, his expression shifts, and his restraint loosens into something hungrier.
“Ivy.” I have never loved the sound of my own name so much.
My nails rake against the back of his shoulders again as he shifts, lowering his weight carefully over me, never crushing, just enough to make me feel surrounded and secure and wanted.
My back arches subtly when his hand slides along my ribs again, fingertips tracing the edge of lace before slipping beneath it, his palm covering my breast fully this time. The slow roll of his thumb sends a sharp ripple of awareness through me that makes my back arch further into his hand.
My hands trace the defined lines of his chest again.
His heart is racing and something about that makes him even more attractive.
Like the idea that he’s excited or nervous makes this moment that much more sacred.
I let my fingers drift lower, exploring the firm planes of his stomach before slipping to the waistband of his jeans again, more confident this time.
He exhales sharply when I pull him closer, the tension in his body tightening as the space between us disappears entirely.
“You can tell me to stop at any point.” His hand waits just above the button on my high-waisted denim shorts, close enough that I can feel the heat of his skin without him even touching me.
“I’m not going to,” I whisper back, meaning every word.
I take the first step, unbuttoning and then unzipping the shorts myself, the quiet sound impossibly loud in the charged air.
He watches as the denim loosens on my hips.
I shift just enough to slide them down, leaving myself in nothing but the dark green lace set beneath.
His gaze drags slowly over me, unhurried and appreciative.
I push his jeans down in return, my fingers brushing deliberately along the hard line of him through the fabric before the denim finally drops, leaving him in nothing but black boxer briefs.
I should have known we’d never survive as platonic roommates. No one lives with someone who looks like him and doesn’t imagine this exact moment.
Something flickers in his eyes, heat layered with something deeper, something almost reverent. Then his mouth claims mine again, harder this time, the kiss turning urgent as the tension between us finally begins to unravel.
His hands move with more confidence now, gliding slowly along the curve of my waist, my hips, my thighs. The steady pressure of his thigh between mine makes my breath catch, the friction slow and deliberate, each subtle shift pulling a quiet reaction from me that only seems to encourage him.
When he finally slides my shorts the rest of the way off, his fingers linger at the lace stretched across my hips, tracing the delicate edge before easing the fabric down my legs with careful patience that makes what is happening between us feel even more intimate.
His gaze lifts to mine again, checking in, before he parts my thighs gently, settling between them. “You okay?” he asks again quietly, voice rougher now as his thumb grazes lightly over sensitive skin, the teasing contact making my head spin.
“Yes,” I whisper, already breathless. “Don’t stop.”
His hand slides between my legs, slow, intentional, learning the way my breathing changes, the subtle way my hips move instinctively toward him. The first touch pulls a quiet sound from me before I can stop it, my body reacting faster than my thoughts can keep up.
A whisper of a smirk ghosts across his full lips at my reaction, but he doesn’t rush. He takes his time.
Every slow movement builds pressure, tension tightening low in my stomach as his rhythm deepens, steady, confident now that he knows exactly how I respond.
“Dalton,” I whisper, my voice raw.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, watching my face carefully as he slowly deepens the motion, the steady rhythm making it impossible to focus on anything except the slow building pressure low in my stomach.
He studies every reaction, every change in my breathing, every small movement of my body, adjusting the pace just when I start to lose myself completely.
The control in it makes everything feel more intense.
The frustration builds when he shifts the rhythm just before I reach the edge, drawing a quiet groan from me.
Dalton laughs softly, the sound warm and entirely too pleased with himself. “Patience, beautiful. I promise to make you come.”
“Dalton Everett,” I warn, breath uneven, “if you’re not inside me in the next five seconds, I’m finishing myself.”
His smirk disappears instantly, replaced by something darker. “As much as I would enjoy watching that,” he says quietly, “no.”
He leans toward the nightstand without fully leaving me, retrieving a condom and sliding it on with practiced efficiency. I refuse to let myself think about what that means right now. Tonight, his attention is entirely mine.
When he settles between my thighs again, the heat of him is overwhelming, the solid length of him pressing against me. I suck in a shaky breath. “You still okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
That word breaks the last thread of restraint.
He pushes inside me slowly, carefully, his jaw tightening slightly at the sensation.
The stretch pulls a soft sound from my throat as I adjust to him, every nerve suddenly aware of how close we are now.
He stills once he’s fully inside me, his forehead pressing briefly to mine as our breathing syncs, giving me time, grounding me in the intensity of the moment.
Then I wrap my legs around his waist, silently asking for more.
His composure slips at that.
He begins to move slowly at first, each thrust measured, deliberate, the rhythm building gradually as tension coils tighter with every shift of his hips.
Every movement drags heat through me, the friction steady, deep, impossible to ignore.
My nails press into his back as the sensation builds, sharper with every slow stroke.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. His hand slides between us again, his touch precise, pushing me closer to the edge while his pace deepens, the combination overwhelming in the best possible way.
The pressure tightens until the tension finally snaps, the sensation cresting suddenly, intensely, the quiet sound that escapes me muffled against his shoulder as he holds me firmly through it.
The way my body reacts pulls something deeper from him, his control finally slipping completely as his rhythm falters, then deepens once more before he slows, then stills against me, his breathing wrecked against my skin.
For a long moment neither of us moves.
His forehead rests against mine, both of us catching our breath, the air between us still heavy with everything that just happened.
His fingers trace slow patterns along my side, grounding, unhurried, like he’s memorizing the feel of me now that he finally can.
I tuck my face into the curve of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath my lips. His arm tightens slightly around me, holding me closer, like letting go isn’t even a consideration. And I realize I don’t want him to. Ever.