Chapter 24
Now
There’s still time to stop, I think. To pull back.
To uncross whatever lines we’ve already crossed.
But once his mouth is on mine, his thumb brushing my cheekbone, it feels inevitable.
Like this would always happen. Like kissing him is an inescapable outcome we could have no more avoided than gravity or the need to breathe.
His knuckles trail down the side of my arm, then lower to my hips, pulling a string of moans from me.
The sound invites another kiss, this time slow and deep, and I don’t know what I like best. If it’s the way he angles my chin, deepening the kiss, or the rush of hot air on my cheek as his body sinks against mine, taking control.
All I know is that it’s not enough. I need more.
And apparently he feels the same.
“God, Ros.” He makes a needy sound that nearly ruins me. “You feel so fucking good.”
They’re the first words either of us has spoken, and I expect them to break the spell. Instead, my name on his lips is a kind of siren song, only making me more feral for him. Like his need is fueling my own in some ravenous feedback loop.
His tongue slides over mine, one hand on the back of my neck, the other cradling my chin, and a hot whoosh of want rips through me, every pulse point in my body humming at max volume.
A whimper rises out of me as I tangle my hands in his hair, desperate to give him that messy, just-fucked look that used to drive me wild. Still drives me wild.
“We’re breaking so many rules right now,” I breathe, then because I can’t think, can’t trust myself to answer the question, I ask, “Is this a bad idea?”
He pulls back a fraction of an inch, just enough to meet my gaze. “Tell me to and I’ll stop.”
Perhaps if this were our first time, if I didn’t already know exactly how things will play out, I’d be more hesitant, more likely to stop myself. But looking at Liam with his messy hair and bee-stung lips is like looking into a crystal ball. I can see the future. And it’s hot.
I already know how Liam will pin me against the bed and kiss my neck. How he’ll pull down my shorts and put his mouth on me, slowly at first, sucking and tasting and savoring, then hungrier, messier, until I’m squirming and begging. Until I’m coming apart.
I know how he fucks too. Slow and sensual, then rough and fast. I know all the hungry groans he’ll make. And just how thoroughly it will undo me. So I skim right past any thoughts of caution or fear, and reach for the words that have been primed on my lips since the moment he kissed me.
“Please don’t stop.”
His eyes lock on mine before tilting his chin and claiming my mouth in a thorough, ruinous kiss made of fire and oil. And suddenly I’m desperate to get burned.
It’s like I’m a teenager all over again, every touch, every movement bursting with a thrill of newness.
But nothing about his body is new to me.
I’ve had all of him. Seen all of him. Being with him isn’t an exotic trip somewhere new.
It’s visiting a familiar haunt. Somewhere I know well.
Somewhere I never thought I’d return to.
I bring my hand down the front of his shorts, pausing where he’s hard. Liam responds with a groan as he takes a handful of my hair, pulling my head back, catching the skin under my jaw with his tongue.
“Fuck, Ros,” he breathes.
“Fuck,” I agree. Because yeah, fuck.
Fuck, I can’t believe we’re doing this.
Fuck, he feels incredible.
Fuck, I need more. More him. More everything.
“I need you inside me,” I gasp.
His body stiffens, and for a moment I fear I’ve gone too far, said the wrong thing, mistaken whatever this is for something more.
Something it’s not. But when Liam draws back, eyes wide, there’s only the briefest of pauses.
A cursory inhale, followed by a short, breathy exhale, then he’s picking me up, wrapping his arms around my thighs, guiding me toward the bed.
Thankfully I still have enough thinking faculties to cry out, “Not here!”
He freezes, his eyes narrowing in confusion, before slow seeds of understanding bloom across his expression as though he’s just now remembering we’re still in Bella and Chris’s room. The only thing weirder than the whole doctor role-playing thing would be us doing it in their bed.
“Right. Sorry,” he says in a voice so raspy, it hurts. “Thinking is sort of hard right now.” He winces and my eyes travel down his frame, where it seems like a lot of things are hard right now.
“Let’s go back to our room,” I clarify.
“Right.” He adjusts himself. “Good idea.”
After we’ve successfully switched the envelopes, we race back to our cabin, barely making it through the door before Liam’s mouth collides with mine. Tandem moans rise out of both of us as he walks me back against the wall, his thumb scraping my spine, his knee wedged between my thighs.
I haven’t felt this kind of anticipation in years—nine to be exact. Not since we were in his kitchen, right before he kissed me for the very first time. Before he carried me to his bed and fucked me for the first time. And the second. And the third.
Back then there was nothing but possibility between us.
No hurt. No pain. No bone-crushing agony of loss.
But this is different, and as much as I want to give in to him the same way I did that night, to push aside any and all cautionary thoughts and let him make a mess of me the way I need him to, I know we still need to at least talk about it.
“Liam,” I gasp, unwinding myself from his grasp. “Wait.”
I feel his body grow rigid against mine. When I look up, his pupils are blown out, his lips pink and swollen, his chest pounding out frantic, desperate rhythms.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice muddled, like I’ve just pulled him out of a deep sleep. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. But before we…before we do this.” I pause, my gaze hovering on his. “I think we should talk about what this is.”
“It’s sex, Ros. Or at least I thought that’s what you meant by I need you inside me?” he says, giving me an electric look.
My cheeks flood with heat. “Yeah, but what kind of sex? Hate sex? Breakup sex? I’m horny and you have a pulse sex?”
He watches me from under a creased brow. “What kind of sex do you want it to be?”
As soon as he asks it, I realize I don’t know.
Then again, I haven’t exactly had time to think this through.
Ten minutes ago we were fighting. Now we’re moments away from fucking.
It’s all so fast, I practically have whiplash.
All I know is that I want this. I want him.
I want him in a way that feels too big, too overwhelming to manage.
“We never had breakup sex,” I say after a beat. “Maybe that’s what we need. For closure.” Yes, closure. That feels like the key word here.
“Right. Closure,” he repeats, his hands trailing along the waistband of my shorts, his fingers toying with the ties. “Is that what you want? Closure?”
I press a palm to my rapidly beating heart, trying to calm down enough to think this through.
Maybe this is a bad idea. Maybe we need to let each other go.
If the past three months have been agony, having Liam only to lose him again will be infinitely worse.
But the need for self-preservation falters as thoughts of him grow magnified.
Not just him, but him and me wound around each other.
Him on top of me. Him between my thighs.
Him pulling my hair. Him. Him. Him. And I know without a doubt that, whatever this is, it won’t bring me any closure, but I want it too badly to stop.
“Yes,” I tell him. “This is what I want.”
“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
His voice is low, serious, and I know what he really means. He’s not just asking if I’m sure I want to throw caution to the wind and sleep together. He’s checking to see if I’m ready to have sex. With him. Like this.
I think about the months after my mom died, when my body didn’t feel like my own.
When I was too heavy, too choked with grief.
When Liam felt so distant. But this feels different.
I feel different. I feel alive. Electric.
Overcome with something I’m not strong enough to resist. Something I don’t want to resist.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I’m sure.”
There’s one more tempered pause, a brief meeting of eyes, then we’re crashing into each other with a mixture of hunger and restraint like we’re unsure whether we want to devour each other or take our time, making this last.
My body decides for me as I reach down for his belt buckle, eager to touch him—be full of him. But he places his hand atop mine.
“Wait. Slow down,” he rasps.
“I don’t want to slow down,” I whine. “I need you.”
He pulls back and I can see the unrestrained lust etched across every hard line of his expression, the way the words I need you turn him feral.
He wants me just as badly as I want him, but he guides my hands away from his belt and up over my head, pinning my wrists against the wall.
A whimper rises out of me as he holds me there with one hand while his other slides down the front of my shorts, cupping me over my underwear.
“Are you this wet for me?” he asks, his voice low like he already knows the answer.
He slides the fabric a fraction of an inch to the side, just enough to brush his thumb over where I’m most sensitive.
I clench under his touch, a tiny whine escaping me as a vein appears on the side of his forehead, like it’s all he can do to control himself—and suddenly I want nothing more than to snap that restraint like a twig.
I push my hips forward, riding the pressure of his thumb. “Still want to go slow?” I ask, in a low, sultry murmur that vibrates in the narrow space between us.
He looks absolutely wrecked and a spark of pleasure races down my spine that I have that effect, but in a flash he pulls his hand away, withdrawing the heat of his touch.