Chapter 20 #3
I sit up and push at his waistband. He helps me, lifting his hips so I can slide the pants and boxers down. His cock springs free—thick, heavy, flushed dark at the tip. I wrap both hands around him and feel the wetness of pre-cum already beading there.
Kane’s breath leaves him in a rush.
“Hannah, baby.” His voice is wrecked. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted you so bad for weeks.”
I stroke him once, watching his eyes flutter shut, then lie back.
He follows, turning me fully onto the mattress, settling between my legs.
I wrap them around his hips without being asked.
He braces on one forearm and uses the other hand to guide the blunt head of his cock through my folds, coating himself, teasing.
In.
Out.
In.
Just the tip.
Each time he pushes a little deeper and retreats, giving me time to adjust to the stretch. His mouth drops to my breast again, sucking one nipple while his fingers gently pluck the other. The dual sensation makes me moan and tilt my hips up, chasing more of him.
“Just hold on to me,” he whispers.
I lock my arms around his shoulders.
He looks straight into my eyes—no looking away, no hiding—and pushes forward in one slow, continuous slide.
The stretch burns.
It fills me so completely I forget how to breathe for a second.
It hurts in the exact way people warn about, and at the same time it feels so right I could cry.
Kane stays still once he’s buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to mine, arms shaking with the effort of not moving.
“Breathe, baby.”
I do.
The burn eases into something hotter, fuller, better. I shift experimentally and we both groan.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Yes.” My voice is barely sound. “Move.”
He does.
Slow at first—long, careful strokes that let me feel every inch of him.
His eyes never leave mine. Every time he bottoms out he grinds just a little, rubbing against places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyelids.
My hands stay in his hair, on his shoulders, sliding down the flexing muscles of his back.
When the pain fully melts into pleasure I lift my hips to meet him. He answers by going deeper, a little faster, still controlled, still watching my face for any sign I need him to stop.
I don’t.
I pull him down into a kiss that is all open mouths and shared breath, and he starts fucking me properly—still deep, still deliberate, but with enough force that the headboard taps the wall in a soft, steady rhythm.
One of his hands slides between us so his thumb can find my clit again. The dual sensation is devastating.
“Kane—oh God—”
“I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
I do.
The orgasm rolls through me in long, rolling waves, clenching around him so tightly he curses against my mouth.
He keeps moving through it, drawing it out until I’m shaking and oversensitive, then finally lets himself follow.
He comes with a low, broken sound, buried as deep as he can go, hips stuttering as he fills me.
For a long time neither of us moves.
He’s still inside me.
My legs are still wrapped around him.
His heart is hammering against my chest in the exact same frantic rhythm as mine.
Eventually he lifts his head. His eyes are soft, almost awed.
“You okay?”
I touch his face with both hands.
“I’m perfect.”
He kisses me once more—slow, grateful, lingering—then carefully pulls out.
The emptiness is sudden and strange. He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm washcloth, cleaning me with the same quiet care he always shows when I’m vulnerable.
When he’s done he climbs back into bed and pulls me against his chest, one heavy arm draped over my waist, legs tangled with mine.
I fit perfectly against him.
Outside, the campus is quiet.
Inside, the only sound is our breathing slowly evening out.
I close my eyes with my cheek pressed to his heartbeat and think, without any fear left in the thought:
This is what choosing feels like.
I wake before the sun does.
Kane’s arm is still heavy across my waist. One of his legs is hooked over both of mine.
The sheets smell like him and me and the quiet aftermath of everything we did.
My body feels different—tender in places that have never been tender before, warm where he held me, a low, steady ache between my legs that isn’t pain so much as proof.
I stay still.
If I move, the night might dissolve. If I speak, the careful, almost sacred quiet might break.
His breathing is deep and even against the back of my neck. Every so often his fingers flex against my stomach, like even in sleep he is making sure I am still here.
I am.
I am so completely here.
The memory of his eyes when he pushed inside me returns in a slow, rolling wave.
The way he watched my face for any sign of fear.
The way he waited. The way he said my name like it was the only word that mattered.
I had expected the physical part to overwhelm everything else.
Instead it is the emotional weight that sits heaviest in my chest this morning.
I let someone see me completely.
Not the version of me that is useful or impressive or carefully curated. The bare, trembling, first-time version. And he stayed. He looked at me like I was something precious instead of something to conquer.
A soft, almost painful pressure builds behind my eyes.
I blink it away.
Kane stirs. His arm tightens once, then loosens as consciousness returns. He presses his mouth to the place where my shoulder meets my neck and breathes in.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Yeah.”
“You okay?”
The question is quiet. Careful. The same way he asked it last night when he was still inside me.
I turn in his arms so we are face to face. His eyes are soft and a little wary, like he is prepared for me to retreat now that the dark is gone.
I touch his cheek.
“I’m more than okay.”
Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He studies my face for a long moment, thumb brushing under my eye.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
A small smile pulls at my mouth. “I keep waiting for the regret. Or the awkwardness. Or the part where I start overanalyzing every second.”
“And?”
“It’s not coming.”
Kane’s expression shifts into something quieter. Almost reverent.
“Good.”
He leans in and kisses me—slow, closed-mouth, morning-soft. Nothing demanding. Just connection. When he pulls back he keeps his forehead against mine.
“Last night was…” He searches for the word. “Important. To me.”
“To me too.”
“I meant what I said. About falling in love with you.”
My throat tightens. “I know.”
“I still mean it this morning.”
I swallow. “I still mean it too.”
We lie there in the gray light filtering through the blackout curtains, not speaking for a while. His hand moves slowly up and down my spine. Mine rests over his heart, feeling the steady thump beneath warm skin.
I feel claimed in the gentlest way possible.
Not owned.
Chosen.
And for the first time in my life, choosing someone back does not feel like risking the ground beneath my feet.
It feels like finally standing on it.