TWENTY-THREE.
Ever
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Slow.
He moves my legs to the side so I’m facing him, then hooks one of my legs around his waist. He scoops me out of the truck and pulls me tight against his chest. His hand cradles the back of my head to keep me from bumping it on the doorframe as he lifts me clear, and I wrap my arms around his neck.
“I hate how strong you are,” I mutter, the words slipping out before my brain can catch up with how ridiculous they sound.
He flashes a lopsided grin, clearly amused, then nudges the truck door shut and carries me toward the house like I weigh nothing at all.
The moment we’re through the door, he spins and presses my back against the solid wood.
My fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to pull his mouth to mine.
He kisses me like he’s starving, hips rocking forward so I can feel every hard inch of him.
His fingers dig into my thighs, and I moan into his mouth as the friction sends sparks racing through my body.
“I hate how good you taste,” he growls against my lips.
I tilt my head back against the door, exposing my neck. He bites down just hard enough to make me moan. I grip his shoulders, nails digging in as my hips chase the pressure of his.
“Tobias,” I whimper, the sound desperate even to my own ears.
He steadies my legs around him and pulls me away from the door, cradling me against his chest again. “Hold on.”
I obey without thinking, arms tightening around his neck. I expect him to set me down, maybe toss me onto the couch and tear my clothes off, but he keeps walking—straight down the short hallway that leads to the bedrooms at the back of the house.
When he reaches the bed, he lowers me slowly until my feet touch the floor at the foot of it. I crane my neck to look up at him, but his gaze is locked on my body. His fingers find the hem of my tank top and pause there, hesitating. The restraint in him is almost painful to watch.
“Just take it off already,” I whisper.
His eyes snap to mine, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.
He pulls the tank top up and over my head, then strips his own shirt off in the next breath.
I lean back, letting my eyes roam over every ridge and plane of him—every hard-earned muscle, every smooth expanse of skin.
He really is sculpted by the gods. There’s no other explanation.
My hands trail up his torso, tracing the lines of him as he undoes his belt buckle.
His jeans slip low on his hips, revealing the dark waistband of his briefs.
I fumble with the button of my own jeans, but he catches my wrists gently and moves my hands aside.
He steps closer, crowding me until the backs of my knees hit the mattress and I topple backward onto the bed.
I crawl up a little, watching him hover above me. His eyes rake over every inch of my body like he’s memorizing me, cherishing every detail. Then he hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and drags them down, taking his time until they’re gone, leaving me in only my bra and underwear.
He kneels at the edge of the bed, knees pressing into the mattress like he’s forgotten how to stand upright. The raw hunger in his expression sends a thrill through me—I love that I can do this to him, that just looking at me has him unraveling.
He wraps his hands around my ankles, then slides his palms under my calves and over my thighs until his thumbs rest dangerously close to my center. My breath hitches. He looks up at my face, a greedy grin spreading wide.
“This is torture,” I whisper.
“Good,” he says, voice dark and satisfied.
I press my head back into the sheets and close my eyes as his thumbs inch higher. My back arches off the bed, hips lifting instinctively to chase his touch. His knuckles graze the damp fabric of my underwear, and a soft whimper escapes me.
“You’re so wet,” he murmurs.
He hooks his fingers into the sides of my underwear and pulls them down, sliding them off my ankles with deliberate care.
Then his hand flattens against my stomach—palm wide, fingers nearly spanning from hip to hip—and he presses the pad of his thumb against me.
I roll my hips against him without thinking, every nerve igniting as the pressure builds.
“Do you want me to get you off like this?” he asks, but I can barely think.
“I don’t care,” I breathe. It feels too good to argue.
He never moves his hand away from me—thumb still circling, teasing—but he shifts and leans over. His lips find my neck and I’m lost in the feel of him everywhere at once.
“I think you do,” he mutters, his voice warm against my skin.
I reach between us and find the hard outline of him through his jeans. I wrap my hand around him and stroke slowly, drawing a deep groan from his throat.
“Fuck. Ever,” he mutters. His thumb presses harder against me in response. My body trembles, thighs shaking as pleasure coils tighter. My grip tightens around him, urging him on, and he matches my rhythm—faster, more insistent.
“Come for me,” he growls, teeth sinking into my neck again, harder this time.
Ecstasy crashes through me. I moan, loud and broken, unable to hold anything back as waves of pleasure ripple outward from my core. My back arches off the bed, hips moving desperately against his hand, chasing every last pulse until my body goes limp.
He kisses me slowly, taking his time as his fingers trail upward over my stomach. Every muscle twitches under his touch, oversensitive and sparking with every inch he explores.
“Sensitive, are we?” he asks, amusement threading through his voice.
He stares down the length of my body, taking his time, savoring it, and the slow drag of his gaze makes me squirm.
I shift my weight and tug at the waistband of his jeans.
He lifts his hips and shoves the denim down.
I groan when I see his briefs still in place.
He chuckles under his breath, then slips them off next, freeing every impossible inch of him.
He’s hard and ready, and the sight of him makes me ache all over again.
“We can take it slow,” he says, misreading my pause, his voice careful.
I glare up at him. “I did not come here for slow, Tobias.”
His grin is wide and wicked, teeth flashing. “You might like it.”
He props himself up so he’s straddling my hips and lowers his weight gently, settling just enough that I feel the heavy length of him resting against me. I thrust my hips up instinctively, needy and impatient, but he leans forward, captures my wrists, and pins them above my head.
“Slow,” he says, firm and quiet.
I let my head fall back against the sheets and force myself to relax, to breathe, to give in to him.
He adjusts his hips, lining himself up until the tip of him presses right at my entrance.
My lips part on a shaky inhale as he slides in, stretching me inch by inch.
He watches where we’re joined, then lets his gaze travel up my body as he pulls back and sinks in deeper.
My eyes roll back. Every movement feels overwhelming, better than I could have imagined.
He starts slow—smooth, measured thrusts that let me feel every ridge, every pulse—but as my wetness coats him, as my body opens and adjusts, he seems to lose his control.
He drives in harder, faster, desperate. He releases my wrists and drops to his elbows, caging me beneath him, face hovering over mine.
His lips crash into mine and he groans into my mouth, pushing deeper.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he grumbles against my lips.
My nails bite into the small of his back as he slows again—long, deep strokes—torturous. “Tobias…” I whisper. My hips lifting to meet him stroke for stroke.
Every motion drags me closer to the edge.
I can feel myself clenching around him, squeezing tight, and when he thrusts again I moan deep in my throat.
My body locks around him as release crashes through me.
He groans deep, his hands fisting the sheets beside my head.
His body tenses above me, muscles locked, and I feel him pulse inside me as he follows, spilling hot and deep.
We stay like that for a long moment—nothing but ragged breathing and the pounding of our hearts.
He pushes up on his elbows and looks down into my eyes, searching my face.
I can see the flicker of hesitation there, the sudden awareness that he didn’t pull out.
But I know my body, and I know there’s nothing to worry about.
“Don’t worry,” I say softly, lifting my hands to cup his face. My fingers stroke down through his beard, soothing.
His whole body relaxes at once, tension bleeding out of him. He shifts back carefully, and my breath catches at the sudden emptiness when he slips free.
I expect him to roll away, to head to the bathroom and leave me here to catch my breath alone, but instead he drops to his side and pulls me against him.
I throw my arm over his waist, curling into his warmth, resting my head on his chest. He slides his legs between mine, tangling us together, and I smile against his skin, listening to the heavy thud of his heartbeat under my ear.
His fingers trace slow, lazy circles over my back.
I close my eyes, sinking into the sensation.
I probably shouldn’t stay. I should gather my clothes, ask him to drive me home, crawl into my own bed alone like I always do.
But the thought of leaving—of being alone in that quiet house—feels unbearable.
I don’t think I could peel myself away even if he asked me to.