Chapter 24 #2
“I’m on birth control,” I confess in a whisper, sliding my palm along the thick, hard length of him through his sweats, watching his eyes flutter shut. “And you know you’re the only person I’ve been with.”
He looks wrecked—brows drawn, jaw clenched, pupils blown wide. I kiss his jaw, slow, coaxing, until he presses his forehead to mine.
“Are you sure?”
I nod, brushing my lips against his. “I want to feel all of you.”
Something primal flickers behind his eyes—want, relief, disbelief, and something like fear.
And that’s it.
That’s the moment he breaks.
Our clothes disappear in a rush of desperate, uncoordinated movements—hands are everywhere, fumbling and frantic with unspoken need.
He tosses his sweatpants aimlessly behind him, and my shirt gets half-stuck over my head.
He helps me, swearing softly, kissing every inch he uncovers like he’s starving. Ravenous.
He trails his fingertips lightly down my torso, barely touching, and goosebumps bloom in the wake of his path.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.”
Maybe I should be embarrassed by how easily his words undo me, by the way my whole body leans into his praise, craving more.
I’m not.
It feels good to be wanted.
To be seen.
What he gives me is more than pleasure—it’s connection, clarity, an emotional intoxication that steals the ground from under me.
If this is what being addicted feels like, I understand why people risk everything for it.
I am a little sore. More than a little, if I’m being honest. But the need outweighs the ache, devours it, makes me incapable of wanting anything but him.
He settles between my thighs, eyes locked on mine, and aligns our bodies before pushing into me—completely bare.
The stretch steals my breath, and I feel everything. Every inch. Every heartbeat. Every ounce of him.
He doesn’t move reverently. He moves like he’s fighting himself—like every restrained thrust is threaded with everything he wants but won’t let himself take.
A choked sound slips out of me, vulnerable and unguarded.
His strokes grow rougher, more desperate, emotion bleeding into every movement—he wants to feel every inch, wants to draw out every sound I make, wants to watch me come apart around him like I’m something he’s earned. Something he’s dying for.
The pressure builds, tight and overwhelming. Emotion and sensation blur until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. My nails dig into his shoulders. My hips lift to meet him. My breathing stutters, breaks.
And when it becomes too much—the way he’s holding me, the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered—I let go, breaking apart and crying out his name, shaking beneath him.
Wesley follows instantly, forehead pressed to mine, his voice a hoarse whisper against my skin as he falls with me.
The drive back is quiet, but everything inside my head is roaring.
The hum of the old engine vibrates through the seat, and I swear I can still feel his hands on my hips, the press of him, the way my body was like putty beneath his touch.
When we got dressed for the second time, Wesley gave me his hoodie. It’s super oversized on me, but it’s cozy and smells like him. The sleeves swallow my hands, hiding the slight tremble.
We haven’t talked since we climbed back into the truck, and the silence is too full. My breathing is still shaky and I feel like I’m outside of my body.
I sneak a glance at him. His jaw is tight, his profile carved in shadows, one hand gripping the wheel, the other splayed over his thigh.
I wonder if he’s replaying everything the way I am—if his heart is still pounding in his throat, if his skin still feels hot from where mine was.
This wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like more. Like a beginning instead of the almost-end.
The closer we get to the house, the more reality tightens around us. The darkened windows. The silence. The fact that in a few minutes, we’ll have to slip in and go to our separate rooms like nothing happened. As if we’re the same two people we were when we left earlier.
Wesley cuts the engine. The sudden stillness lands between us, heavy, charged. We sit there for a second too long, like we both know that when we get out, we’re stepping back into the world where we don’t belong to each other.
We tiptoe into the entryway, the old wooden door creaking louder than necessary as Wesley slowly pushes it shut behind us. We both wince, holding our breath.
The house feels different now—like it knows. Like the walls can hear my heartbeat tripping over itself. Or maybe that’s just me trying to make sense of the way everything inside me shifted in a single night.
I move up the stairs first, my steps careful, testing each stair before putting my full weight on it. When I reach my door, I hover, shifting on my feet. I have no idea what protocol is for this situation.
Do we kiss goodnight? Wave awkwardly? High five?
Before I can decide, Wesley meets my gaze in the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the window. His eyes sweep over me, searching.
Then he reaches out, slipping his fingers between mine and gently pulling me.
Not toward my room.
To his.
“Shower with me,” he murmurs, his breath caressing the nape of my neck.
“Okay,” I whisper, even though my heart is already answering yes, screaming it a thousand times over.
Standing in front of the mirror, my eyes catch on a dark stain smudged across the hem of his hoodie. More blood. A strange mix of embarrassment and shock settles in my chest—undeniable proof that something irreversible happened tonight.
He notices too, stepping behind me while the steam curls around us. His fingers lift the hoodie, peeling it slowly up and over my head, his eyes holding mine in the reflection the entire time. I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being undressed.
“You seem to have a thing for mirrors,” I manage, my voice breathless.
He presses a soft kiss to my bare shoulder. “I have a thing for you,” he says, voice low in my ear, before sliding the straps of my bra off one by one. Then he sinks to his knees on the cold tile floor, stripping my leggings off my body.
I watch us in the reflection but freeze when my gaze snags on a faint bruise beneath my collarbone. His fingerprints, or mouth maybe. My eyes trail lower, lingering on the dried blood on the inside of my thigh.
My hands smooth over my stomach. I don’t recognize the girl staring back at me, as if I’ve stepped into someone else’s life by accident.
Wesley strips completely and pulls me under the steamy shower spray with him. The water rushes over us, the perfect temperature, instantly relieving the tension and aches in my muscles.
He gathers all my hair away from my face, letting it fall down my back before he slowly lathers me with soap.
The moment is intimate in a way that feels too big for the small space we’re standing in—naked, wet, quiet—but it’s not sexual.
There’s no hunger here.
No expectation.
Just me, and him, and the soft permission to exist together.
He turns me slowly, gently guiding me to face him, his hand steady on my waist. The washcloth glides over my skin in soft circles, wiping away the blood—the evidence—with tender, unhurried strokes. His touch lingers long after the cloth passes.
We silently rinse then dry off. I grab one of his hoodies hanging on the hook behind the door, slipping it over my head. No underwear. Just clean skin, wet hair, and my rapidly beating heart.
When I open the bathroom door, the room is dark except for the thin sliver of moonlight spilling through his curtains.
He’s in bed, already tucked under the covers—waiting for me.
I stand there in the doorway, frozen and unsure. Am I supposed to climb into bed and pretend none of this meant anything?
He hasn’t said anything since he took my clothes off. Maybe he regrets it. Maybe he’s trying to find a gentle way to take it all back. Meanwhile, I’m standing here in nothing but his hoodie and making everything uncomfortable.
I shift on my feet, anxiety crawling up my throat as he watches me, his expression unreadable in the dim lighting.
But then he lifts the corner of the duvet, a soft, wordless invitation.
My chest tightens but I shove it down, slipping beneath the covers. The mattress dips beneath our weight as I settle next to him. We lie on our sides, facing each other in the dark.
“Good night, Wesley,” I whisper, because it’s the only thing I can say without my voice cracking.
He pulls me into him, pressing his lips to my forehead. His reply is quiet, almost reverent. “Good night, Princess.”