fifteen #3
A beat passed—long enough for me to wonder if he was going to let this moment slip away, if he'd decide it wasn't worth the trouble, if he'd leave me strung out and furious and alone.
But he didn't.
I felt him sink to his knees behind me, the air shifting as he settled. His hands slid up the backs of my thighs, slow and deliberate, thumbs brushing the lace stretched tight across me.
"What are you doing?" My voice came out hoarse, unsteady. I wasn't sure if it was a real question or a plea to keep going.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the inside of my knee—soft, almost mocking. Then another, higher this time, closer to where I was already aching.
His breath ghosted over bare skin. "What you need," he murmured.
I shivered. Because he was right. Because I hated how right he always was about this part of me.
One of his hands gripped my hip, firm enough to keep me there. The other dragged up, tracing the waistband of the lace. He tugged it aside in one practiced motion, baring me to the warm rush of his exhale.
And when he leaned in and dragged his mouth over me—slow, devastating, patient—I didn't say anything at all.
A broken sound tore out of me before I could swallow it down. My forehead dropped to the wall, my hands bracing hard against the plaster. I told myself this was just another way to forget everything else. Another way to feel something that didn't scare me as much as caring did.
"Brooks," I gasped, but it wasn't a protest. Just his name, raw and helpless.
He groaned low, the vibration sinking all the way into my bones. "You think I haven't pictured this?" His voice was a rough scrape, muffled against my skin. "You on the edge of losing it for me."
My breath stuttered. My hips rocked back without permission. My body betraying me the same way it always did.
I didn't pretend.
I couldn't.
His tongue swept over me again—slow, thorough, until my knees started to tremble. My pulse was a frantic thing, hammering at the base of my throat.
He took his time. Licked into me like he was memorizing every response, every shiver. Like he was proving to both of us that I'd never really stopped wanting this.
When I tried to muffle another broken sound against my arm, he pulled back just far enough to speak.
"Let them hear you," he murmured, his breath hot. "Let them know exactly who you're coming for."
Heat flushed across my chest, up the side of my neck. I hated that it turned me on even more—that it made something dark and reckless twist low in my belly.
He didn't wait for an answer. He sealed his mouth over me, tongue circling in a rhythm that made my vision white out. My hands scrambled against the wall, nails scraping for something to hold onto.
"Fuck," I whispered, my voice wrecked.
He groaned again—a low, satisfied sound—and sucked harder.
It was too much.
I came with a sharp cry I couldn't bite back, every muscle locking tight before dissolving into a slow, unbearable release. My body shook. My breath stuttered out of me in ragged bursts.
He didn't stop until I was shivering against the wall, too wrung out to pretend I was fine.
Only then did he stand behind me again, his breathing harsh against my shoulder. His hand settled over my hip, heavy and possessive, like he was staking a claim we'd both pretend didn't matter later.
I stayed where I was, too undone to turn around, my cheek pressed to the cool plaster.
A long moment passed. The air between us was thick with everything we weren't saying.
When I finally turned to face him, his eyes were dark and unsatisfied, like he hadn't gotten nearly enough.
Neither of us spoke.
I reached for my robe, pulling it around me with hands that didn't feel entirely my own. Like the rest of me was still trying to catch up with the choice I'd already made.
The silence stretched out—thick, unbroken.
My hands were trembling as I tied the sash. My chest still heaving, my face hot. And I knew this didn't fix anything. That it wouldn't fix anything tomorrow, or the day after that. But it was easier to pretend it could.
He hadn't moved. He just watched me, eyes steady, waiting for me to look at him and admit something I didn't have the strength to say out loud.
When he spoke, his voice was rough around the edges. "Come with me."
I stared at him. My heartbeat was a dull roar in my ears. "I can't."
His jaw flexed. "Why not?"
I swallowed. My fingers tightened on the sash of my robe. "I...didn't make what I needed yet."
A beat of silence.
His gaze didn't waver. "How much did you make tonight?"
I didn't answer right away. Couldn't. Because I didn't want to admit how many reasons I had for staying right where I was.
He took one slow step closer. "Tell me."
I stayed silent.
His eyes searched mine. Something unspoken moved there—equal parts softness and something that felt almost cruel.
"However much you wanted to make, I'll double it," he said, low and even. "But you're leaving with me."
I didn't look away.
I should have said no.
I didn't.