Chapter 24
He didn’t so much walk me to the bedroom as he did carry me, backwards, up the hallway.
We crashed together in a tangle of hands and teeth, knocking into doorframes and scattering a tidy row of shoes like they were bowling pins.
He was laughing, low and quiet, every time I tried to say something clever and he interrupted with his mouth.
By the time we made it to the bed, we’d left a trail of evidence from the entryway—my scarf, his t-shirt, a button that had torn off my blouse in the crossfire.
Alaric paused at the foot of the bed just long enough to cup my face in both hands and look at me, really look at me, with an intensity that bordered on breathtaking.
He kissed me on the forehead, then the cheek, then the edge of my jaw, then back to my mouth, each one softer and hungrier than the last. It was as if he’d decided to inventory every square inch of my face before he could move on.
Lowering my onto the duvet, Alaric followed me down, the mattress sighing under our weight.
I felt his hands sliding up my arms, over my shoulders, down my sides, and I was suddenly, ferociously aware of the boundaries of my own skin.
I wanted all barriers between us gone with a violence that shocked me.
He must’ve picked up on the vibe, because he started working at the remaining buttons of my clothes, fingers deft and deliberate.
But instead of just tearing the whole thing open like he’d done with the first button, he took his time, undoing them one at a time, kissing the newly revealed skin as he went.
I tried to be cool, but every brush of his mouth set off an electrical storm that rippled down my spine and left my hands clawing at the sheets.
I managed to get one hand under his shirt—still on him, somehow, like he hadn’t even noticed—and skimmed my fingers along his abs.
He was all muscle and warmth, the kind of body that deserved love bites and licks.
I curled my nails over his hip, pulled him closer, and grinned when he let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan.
He hooked his knee between mine and pressed upward, the friction exactly right and exactly what I wanted. I gasped, genuinely startled by the jolt it sent through me, and the laugh that followed came out shaky and wild.
He said, “You’re killing me, Aly.”
I answered by rolling my hips against his knee, desperate for more of that pressure, and whispered, “Please. I need you. Please.”
He stilled. “Not as much as I need you.” He sounded so raw and the words vibrated in my chest. I wanted to record them, play them back every time I doubted anything.
He crushed his mouth to mine, the kiss punishing and tender at the same time, and I lost all sense of what I’d planned to do or say next.
His hand slid between my thighs, picking up where his knee had left off.
Even through my underwear, I could feel the shape of his fingers, precise and unhurried.
He kissed me as he stroked, and I arched against him, not caring how obvious I was.
I was restless and wild, and every time I moaned into his mouth, he responded by kissing me harder, deeper.
He pulled back just enough to say, “Do you know how many times I’ve touched myself thinking about you and what this moment would be like? I've fantasized about this for years and the reality is so much better.”
I was too far gone to answer with anything more than, “Please. Please.” It was pathetic, but he seemed to like it, because he grinned and bit the side of my neck, just hard enough to leave a mark.
He sat back on his heels, hands framing my ribcage, and looked down at me like he couldn’t decide whether to worship or devour me.
His eyes were dark, all pupil, and his mouth was soft and a little swollen from kissing.
I’d never seen anyone look so ridiculously sexy, and the only thought in my brain was how badly I wanted to be consumed.
He leaned down, lips at my ear, and whispered, “I'm going to make you come so many times tonight.”
I nodded. He didn’t wait for a verbal confirmation—maybe he knew I couldn’t manage one—but slipped his hand under the waistband of my underwear and found my clit with two fingers.
I made a noise that was part whimper, part “oh fuck,” and he went right on petting me, slow at first, then faster, never breaking eye contact.
I was so close, so close that I thought I might die no matter what he did, but I managed to reach for him, fumbling at the front of his jeans. He helped, guiding my hand to the zipper and letting me tug it down. His cock sprang free, thick and perfect and hard and big.
I said “Please,” again, because obviously it was the only word left in my vocabulary.
He knelt up, shucked off his jeans and boxers, and, in one smooth motion, grabbed a condom from the bedside table. He tore it open with his teeth, then gripped himself at the base, rolling it on. I watched, eyes wide, and licked my lips without even thinking. He saw, and winked.
“I hope you're ready for me, Aly.”
I wasn’t, but I wanted to be. My body was one big knot of nerves and adrenaline, every muscle coiled and burning. He crawled back over me, then paused, his hand hot on my thigh.
Instead of pushing inside, he surprised me—again—by kissing his way down my stomach, past my bellybutton, to the inside of my thigh. He nuzzled the skin there, breathing me in, then licked a slow stripe up to my clit.
I didn’t process what was happening until he did it again, with more pressure, and I shattered.
The orgasm blinded me, an all-consuming collision of stars behind my eyes, and I said his name so loud I was grateful for the lack of neighbors.
He didn’t stop, just kept licking and kissing until I was shaking, and when he finally looked up at me, his mouth was glistening and he looked criminally pleased with himself.
He said, “The next time we go to a restaurant, I’m going to do that under the table.”
I made an involuntary, utterly inelegant sound, and he laughed, eyes shining.
Then he said, “That’s number one.”
I didn’t follow, but I also didn’t have time to ask because he grabbed me by the hips and spun me around, laying himself flat on the bed and pulling me on top of him. He positioned himself at my entrance, held me there for a breathless second, and said, “Ready?”
I nodded, hair falling in my face, and he guided me down onto his cock, inch by inch. The stretch was insane, almost too much, but the relief of finally being filled—by him, by all of him—overrode every other sensation. I braced my hands on his chest and started to move, rolling my hips.
He watched me, hands everywhere at once: gripping my thighs, squeezing my ass, sliding up my back. He looked at me like he’d never seen anything so beautiful, and I felt it, really felt it, down to the marrow of my bones. It was too much. It was perfect.
He said, “You have to slow down or else it'll be over too soon.”
I tried, but every movement made me want to go faster. He held out as long as he could, then flipped us so I was on my back and he was above me, moving so slowly I thought I might cry from the agony.
He grabbed both my hands and pinned them to the mattress, fingers entwined, and fucked me with long, deep strokes that made me see stars at the edges of my vision. I said, "Oh. God. Please," and I meant it. I was so close, so close, and he knew it.
He pressed his forehead to mine and said, "Make me a promise."
"Anything," I said, not even caring what it was.
He said, “Us together just like this and just like the days we spent before Christmas, every year.” His voice was a rasp, barely human. "I want everything from you, everything that matters."
I said, "Yes."
He said, "Promise me. I know you'll never break a promise."
“I pro-promise,” I said, and then I came, harder, a white-out that erased everything but him, him, him. He followed, body shaking, burying his face in my neck as he finished.
We stayed like that for a long time, tangled and sweating, breathing each other in. When he finally moved, it was only to pull me closer, wrapping his arms around me like he was afraid I’d disappear.
He said, "I love you, Aly. I love you."
“God, I love you too, Alaric,” I said "And I want to be deserving of you."
He kissed my hair, my ear, my cheek. He said, "Alybear, you already are."
* * *
For a long, long time after, we just lay there, a heap of limbs and sweat and skin, the air in the room gone sweet and thick with it.
At first, I couldn’t move. Not because I was paralyzed by anything so simple as exhaustion, but because I knew—deep, somewhere inside—that this was a moment I would never forget, and therefore I never wanted it to end.
I’d never felt anything this good. His hands wandered: up and down my back, over the swell of my hip, back to the nape of my neck, each pass unhurried, like he was memorizing the latitude and longitude of every inch.
Eventually, when the air had cooled just enough to make goosebumps out of the sweat, I propped myself up on an elbow and watched him watch me.
The way he did it was almost unnerving, direct and hungry, like he was already thinking about the next time, and the time after that.
A younger, dumber version of myself would have tried to break the tension with a joke.
Now, I didn’t want to move an inch. I welcomed the tension.
He tightened his hold, as if to make absolutely sure I wasn’t going anywhere, then kissed the side of my head. “You know, at this point, we’re practically engaged.”
I shot him a look, a challenge and a dare. If he was going to tease, I was going to match him. “Oh, is that how it works? You sleep with someone once and suddenly you’re contractually obligated?”
He lifted his head, then, eyes locking onto mine with such force that I felt the full impact down in my chest. He said, “Are you willing to write that down as an IOU?”