TWENTY.
Ever
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Tell me what you want.
My head is buzzing, a soft, pleasant haze from maybe one drink too many, though as the designated driver I kept myself more aware than I let on.
We made it back to the ranch without incident, but Marissa barely made it through the front door before collapsing onto the living room sofa.
I tugged a blanket over her, tucked it around her shoulders, and left her there snoring softly while I headed to my room.
I peel off the going-out clothes I haven’t touched since arriving here—jeans that feel too tight now, a top that now smells faintly of bar smoke and perfume, one inch heels that no longer agree with my arches.
I crawl into bed, the sheets cool against my skin, and stare at the walkie sitting on the nightstand like it’s daring me to pick it up.
I promised I’d call when we got back. Channel two. Two seconds to say we’re home, we’re safe, good night. Simple. So why am I frozen with my heart thudding too hard?
I close my eyes and see his face again—the way he looked at me when I walked away earlier, like he was holding himself together by threads.
The way his hand clamped over mine against his stomach like he didn’t want to let me go.
My body still remembers it, the heat of him, the way my fingers curled instinctively, the ache that hasn’t left since.
I reach for the radio, flip the knob on top, but the little red light that should glow stays dark.
Dead battery. Of course. I push myself up to sit and swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
I plug it in and watch the light flicker on, but it’ll take minutes to charge enough to use, and I’m not sure I’ll still have the nerve when it does.
I grab my phone, flop back against the pillow, and scroll through contacts until I find his name. Tobias. I’ve never called his number for personal use before, not with the walkie always clipped to my belt and him always somewhere on the ranch. I hover my thumb over the call button, then press it.
Each ring stretches longer than the last. My heart jumps with every one. What if he’s asleep? What if he sees my name and lets it ring? What if his phone’s on silent, or in another room?
Then it clicks.
“Hey,” he says. Warmth floods through me instantly, settling low. God, is that really all it takes now? One word from him and I’m unraveling?
“Hi,” I manage, clearing my throat. “My radio was dead, so… I figured I’d call.”
“You’re home?”
“Yeah.” The word comes out short, clipped. My mind blanks. This should be it—good night, we’re safe, end of conversation. But the silence stretches. “Were you sleeping?”
“No.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter and shake my head at myself. Just hang up. You did what you said you’d do. But the alcohol and the ache and the memory of his hand on mine won’t let me.
“Did you have a good time?” he asks.
“Yeah, it was alright.” It was fun—laughing with Marissa, dancing a little, feeling normal for a few hours—but the whole time part of me was still here, still caught on what I left behind. “You do anything interesting?”
“No.” His voice is quiet, almost careful.
I rest my free hand on my stomach, feeling the low, tugging ache there. “Did you stay long at the ranch after I left?”
After I walked back to Marissa and the guys, he’d climbed straight into his truck and drove to the barn without another word.
“No,” he says. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Hmm,” is all I can manage, because my mind is already sliding into darker places—places I probably shouldn’t go while he’s on the phone, voice rumbling through the speaker straight into my chest.
“I need to ask you something,” he says, and the roughness in his tone makes my stomach clench tight, anticipation and nerves twisting together.
“Okay,” I breathe, the word slipping out a little shaky as I close my eyes and let the phone press closer to my ear, focusing entirely on the low, steady timbre of his voice cutting through the quiet of my room.
“I need to know what you want,” Tobias says, simple and direct. My insides clench at the question, as if my body already knows the answer and is impatient for me to admit it.
“Like… right now? What do I want?”
“Mhm.”
My mind floods with images of him—his mouth on mine, strong hands gripping my hips, his arms lifting me effortlessly, his body pressed so close there’s no space left between us. The thought alone nearly pulls a moan from my throat.
“I’m a little buzzed right now, Tobias,” I say, trying to cling to some shred of caution. My mind scrambles to keep me from spilling everything, because there’s no way I should tell him the full truth of what’s burning through me. “I’m not sure I should say it.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
The words are quiet, but they land like a spark. My hand moves almost without permission, sliding downward over my stomach, and my hips shift against the sheets, restless and needy.
“I want you,” I whisper, voice catching at the end as my fingers brush lower. My whole body aches for him—for his touch, his weight, anything he’ll give me.
“How do you want me?”
My body freezes for a second. Is he really asking this? Does he actually want me to lay out every filthy, desperate thought I’ve been trying to bury? Because I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t.
“Tobias…” I start, but the protest dies before it can form. I want this too much to stop.
“Tell me.”
I groan softly. His voice is smooth against the jagged edges of my thoughts, pulling me deeper. “I want your hands on me.”
“Mhm,” he murmurs, and the sound of his short, uneven breaths sends heat rushing through me. My hand slips beneath the waistband of my pants, fingers finding slick warmth, and my hips roll instinctively.
“I want you to pin me to the wall,” I say, words tumbling out now, “I want your hands everywhere—grabbing my breasts, guiding my hips, feeling how wet I am for you.”
“Are you touching yourself?” His voice is rough, almost strained. All I can do is picture my fingers as his as they move in slow circles, and a broken moan-whimper escapes me. “Fuck. Ever. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me what you want,” I plead, desperate for more of his voice, his mind, the way he unravels me without even being here.
“I want your legs wrapped around me,” he says, his voice washing over me. “My fingers tangled in your hair. I wanna bite down on your neck until you moan my name.” As if summoned, another soft moan slips past my lips. “I want to be deep inside you, trembling under me.”
“I want you to make me come,” I rasp, and his breathing turns ragged on the other end of the line. I hear the faint, rhythmic sound of his hand moving—fast, urgent—and it sends a fresh wave of heat through me as I try to match his pace.
“I want all of you,” he mutters, his voice faltering.
My hips tilt up, fingers finding that perfect spot, and euphoria crashes over me in waves. I moan his name, curse under my breath, lose track of everything except the pleasure ripping through me. My body moves on its own, chasing every last pulse until I’m trembling.
I let out an uneven breath, mind swimming in a warm, hazy fog. Every thought still circles back to him.
“You’re trouble, Mr. Brooks,” I murmur, voice lazy.
He scoffs quietly, and I hear the faint, wet sound of him shifting. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
I chuckle weakly as I pull my hand away. The combination of alcohol and the mental marathon of thinking about him all night is finally catching up. My eyelids feel impossibly heavy.
“The next chance I get,” he says, voice dropping lower, “you’re mine.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I reply, a slow, sleepy grin tugging at my lips.
“Get some rest,” he says gently.
My mind is already drifting, half-gone. “Night.”
“Good night, Ever.”
I smile at the way my name sounds in his mouth, soft, almost possessive, and then the line clicks off.
I tuck the phone under my pillow, pull the covers up around me, and imagine what it might be like to have his arms wrapped around my body.