33.0 #5
He followed, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click that sealed us away from the world.
The interior lights dimmed.
His hand found my thigh.
Slow.
Possessive.
Like he'd been waiting hours.
Like he wasn't done telling me everything he felt.
The SUV pulled away from the venue, lights streaking past the windows like soft gold.
Brooks's fingers tightened on my skin.
And when I shifted closer, breath catching—
He smiled in the dark, voice dipping into a tone only my body understood.
The SUV hadn't even stopped rolling before Brooks' hand gripped my thigh — firm, warm, claiming. A touch that said everything he hadn't dared speak earlier.
When we stepped into the house, it was dark. Still. No voices, no footsteps — just the steady hum of the A/C and the rush of my pulse in my ears. The air felt charged, like the house itself was holding its breath.
Brooks didn't give me time to think.
His fingers wrapped around my wrist — gentle but sure — guiding me through the foyer, past the kitchen, up the stairs like he'd memorized the steps in his head all night. His pace was quiet but certain, and every brush of his skin against mine lit another fuse under my ribs.
By the time we reached our room, my breath was shallow and he was all heat at my side.
I barely got the door halfway shut before he pressed it closed the rest of the way with one palm. His other hand found my waist, pulling me in, and then his mouth was on mine — hard, hungry, unforgiving — stealing the air from my lungs like he'd been starving for it.
There was nothing hesitant in the way he kissed me.
No apology.
Just heat. Hunger. Possession.
His mouth moved over mine slowly at first, then deeper, demanding, like he was trying to taste every sound I'd refused to make in public. His kiss told me everything — the frustration, the ache, the claim.
My back hit the wall. His hands slid up my sides, under my dress, fingers digging into my hips with a kind of restrained urgency that sent fire curling low in my stomach.
"Brooks—"
He didn't let me finish. His mouth traveled to my throat, kissing, then grazing with his teeth, dragging heat across my skin until my knees buckled. Each kiss felt like a question and an answer all at once. Each bite made my breath stutter.
Before I could catch a breath, he slid both hands beneath my thighs and lifted me — easily, like I weighed nothing. My back pressed to the wall again as my legs wrapped around his hips. My dress rode up with the movement, fabric bunching at my waist, his body flush against mine.
He kissed me again — harder this time, like every second apart had built into this moment. Like he was ending the silence with every breath.
He carried me to the bed, lowering me with a kind of careful control that made my pulse spike. The mattress dipped beneath us, and his palms slid down the backs of my legs — slow, deliberate — pushing the fabric of my dress higher, exposing skin inch by inch to the cool air and his gaze.
His eyes locked on mine — dark, intent, burning — and something in my chest pulled tight.
"Amira."
Just my name.
Nothing else.
But it hit like a promise. A warning. A vow.
He slid me to the edge of the mattress, hands gripping my knees, spreading them with a quiet, breath-stealing insistence. My breath hitched as cool air brushed between my thighs, but it was his focus that made my heart pound — unwavering, steady, consuming.
Then I felt his breath.
Warm.
Slow.
Intentional.
Then his mouth met the inside of my thigh, and I forgot how to breathe.
He kissed up slowly, deliberately — each press of his lips dragging heat in its wake, each pause pulling another sound from my throat I didn't mean to let slip.
By the time he reached the place I was aching for him, my hand was already in his hair, my back arching off the sheets.
His grip on my thighs tightened, anchoring me in place, holding me open — steady, exposed, undone under the rhythm he set. Every movement of his mouth was confident, precise, like he'd studied every part of me and knew exactly what would make me come apart.
"Brooks—" My voice cracked. "I'm— I'm close—"
He didn't stop. The sound he made in response was quiet, low, devastatingly satisfied.
His hands slid higher, pinning my hips, guiding them exactly where he wanted them. The pressure coiled tighter, my body unraveling, vision blurring, legs trembling around him.
When the release finally hit, it took everything. My gasp punched the air. My body shattered beneath his mouth, and he stayed with me — holding me through it, not letting me slip away.
He didn't let me come down slowly.
He lifted me again, pulled me into his lap, and kissed me — deep, hot, breathless — tasting my surrender like it belonged to him.
My hands fisted in his shirt. His breath broke across my mouth. His kiss was no longer controlled. It was desperate. Devouring.
His hands were everywhere, and still — it wasn't enough. Not for him. Not for me.
I didn't ask where we were going. I just followed the heat.
And let him take me the rest of the way.