Dear Self-Control, We Had a Good Run
Sadie
The information that I’d just heard was a lot. He wrote letters. He had no memory of what happened that night. He only wanted me.
I was so overwhelmed. Had the past twelve years of my life been based on a lie? If he didn’t remember sleeping with Vicki, did that mean it didn’t happen?
A part of me, a large part consisting of my heart and hormones, wanted to believe him.
I wanted that more than anything. But another part, my head, was saying that it didn’t matter.
We both had our own lives now. Lives that we would both be returning to as soon as Buddy was better.
I couldn’t get my heart broken all over again.
Out of sheer self-preservation, I cleared my throat and stood, Dawson followed my lead. I took a deep breath and said, “It’s, um…getting late. I think you should go.”
He made no attempt to move, just kept standing there, hands hanging loose at his sides, like he was waiting for me to say something more, but I thought I’d been pretty clear.
The room felt small, like the heat from the fireplace had swelled up and filled all the extra air with atmospheric charge.
I didn’t trust myself to say another word, not after the way my chest had caved and then expanded with an emotion too terrifying to name when he told me he had no memory of the night he cheated on me.
That he’d written to me for years. That he only wanted me and still did.
Each word had chipped away another layer of the armor I’d spent over a decade assembling, leaving me too raw, too vulnerable, too full of all the feelings I’d tried to drown.
I waited for him to leave, but he just kept standing there, and then he said it, “I never stopped loving you, Sadie. Not even for a second.”
It came out battered and delicate at the same time, like he’d been practicing it all these years and was still afraid it would break in the air between us.
He took a step closer, let his palm hover by my cheek but didn’t dare touch me.
My insides screamed at me to run. Instead, I tilted my chin up and stared at him with all the bravado I could summon.
He bent his head down, slow—so slow I could have stopped him if I wanted to.
I didn’t. His mouth crashed onto mine, and it was like being hit by a tidal wave.
The years didn’t just melt away, they caught fire, ignited by the scrape of his stubble and the taste of whiskey and the utter devastation in the way he kissed me.
He pulled me in so tight that I could barely breathe, but I didn’t care, I just wrapped my arms under his and clawed at the broad muscles of his back, like maybe if I dug hard enough, I could excavate the boy I used to love from the man who was holding me.
The kiss started soft, chaste even, but there was a desperation to it, a need that neither of us had bothered hiding.
His tongue swept into my mouth and all at once my body remembered everything, how his hands used to span my waist, how he’d laugh into my neck after sneaking into my bedroom window, how he’d pull my knees over his shoulders as he devoured me whole.
I melted, shameless, into the press of his chest. He made a sound in the back of his throat, something almost like pain, and I heard myself whimper in response.
He backed us up toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, his hands digging into my hips and lifting me like I weighed absolutely nothing.
My ass hit the mattress, and he peeled himself away just long enough to strip off my T-shirt, his knuckles brushing the undersides of my breasts and making me shudder.
I reached for him and tried to tug his shirt over his head, but it was tight on his shoulders, and he had to help me, yanking it off and tossing it somewhere behind him.
In the firelight, his skin looked even darker, slicked with sweat.
I ran my hands over his chest and felt the wild drumbeat of his heart.
He pushed me back on the bed and knelt between my legs, his fingers finding the tie of my sweatpants and jerking hard until it gave.
I chuckled, but he didn’t—he just stared at me, every muscle in his jaw working like he was holding back from saying something dangerous.
He slid the pants down my legs, along with my underwear, until I was naked.
He didn’t waste time with it, just nuzzled his mouth around my nipple, sucking so hard I could have sworn it might bruise.
My whole body jerked like a live wire. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading them open with the easy force of someone who knew every inch of me.
I let my head flop back and dug my fingers into his hair, surprised at how familiar it was—the exact texture, the way it curled behind his ears, the way I could twist it in my fists, and he would grunt in pleasure.
He licked, sucked, and nipped at my breasts, taking his time, like he was memorizing me all over again.
It was almost too much and not enough, all at once.
When he finally hovered above me, staring down into my face, I saw everything.
The grief, the guilt, the anger, the aching, the relentless love.
It was like drowning and being rescued at the same time.
I reached up and pulled him down to me, rolling my hips against the hard length of him through his jeans.
He groaned, low and guttural, as I raked my nails down his back.
For a heartbeat, I froze, just blinking up at him, stunned at how easily I’d let him strip me bare, at how much I wanted him to.
Then instinct surged up, and I was all hands, fumbling at the thick buckle of his belt, popping it free, tugging at the metal teeth of his zipper until it groaned its surrender.
He had to help me shove his jeans down his legs, then he kicked them off with a grunt that sent a shockwave straight through me.
For maybe a second, we just stared at each other, naked and lit up by the glow of the fire, every scar and freckle and memory laid out between us.
He sucked in a shaky breath and rasped, “Fuck, Sadie.” The words were barely words, more like a prayer or a warning. He traced the slope of my waist with both hands, like he was mapping out all the places he’d missed, then lowered his head and caught my nipple between his lips once again.
My entire body went rigid, then molten, as he licked and sucked, switched to the other side, and grazed it gently with his teeth.
He made these little sounds—growling, almost—each one vibrating through my ribs and down my spine.
My hands clamped onto his hair, and I dragged him closer, like if I didn’t, I’d float away.
He crawled back up my body, every inch of him deliciously hard and hot.
He flicked his tongue along my jaw and murmured my name like it was an apology.
I could feel his cock, hot and heavy, sliding against my thigh.
The friction sent a bolt of electricity through my core, and I arched my back, desperate for more.
He rocked against me, teasing, his shaft rubbing against my slick heat but never quite entering.
I gasped, and he grinned into my skin, the edge of his stubble scraping me raw. My legs wrapped around his waist, his steel-hard arousal pressed fully to my sex. I rocked my hips into the sensation, loving the feeling of him as his erection glided along my slick folds.
Desperation surged in me. I needed him to feel the urgency that was overwhelming me.
He was too in control. Too contained. Needing to bring him closer to the brink, I spit on my palm, reached between us, and wrapped my fingers around his girth.
I began to stroke him, slow at first, just to feel the pulse and heft of him.
When his body tensed with pleasure, I tightened my grip and moved my hand faster, matching the rhythm of my heart.
He hissed and bucked into my fist, but he didn’t let me have control instead, he continued peppering my body with open-mouth kisses, catching my bottom lip and biting it softly as he hovered over me.
I wanted him inside me so badly it hurt, but he didn’t rush.
He pressed his forehead to mine and breathed me in, like he needed to memorize every second of our encounter.
“I never wanted anyone but you,” he said, voice shredded and raw. “Not ever. No matter what you think, Sadie. No matter what happened.”
The words hit me harder than the act of sex ever could.
I’d never cried during moments like this, but my eyes burned with unshed tears.
I thought about all the time we’d lost, the years I’d spent hating him, hating myself for still wanting him.
Blaming him and then myself for leaving and never coming back, how it had always been easier to build walls than to let him back in.
But now he was here, the real him, solid and relentless and so, so gentle, and I knew I was about to break.
His right hand cupped the back of my head, held me steady, and kissed me again.
This time it was slow, almost reverent, like he was making up for every second we’d been apart.
His other hand slid down my body, fingers tracing the seam of my thigh, then dipping between my legs.
He ran his thumb up my slit, lazy and unhurried, collecting the evidence of just how much I wanted him.
Then he dipped two fingers inside, curling them in a way that made me see stars.
I moaned into his mouth, not caring how desperate I sounded.
He worked me open, fingers pushing deeper, then retreating to circle my clit, then back inside.
I was so wet it made a lewd sound every time he moved, but I didn’t care.
He broke our kiss to watch my face. He studied every twitch and gasp, adjusting his rhythm until I was panting and clawing at his back, on the brink of losing control.
I threw my head back and closed my eyes as the pleasure in my core built to nearly intolerable levels.
I continued stroking him as he kissed my eyelids, my temple, my jaw, and whispered, “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed how good you feel. How wet I make you.”
His words caused my body to clench around his fingers and his shaft to swell in my palm.
I was so close it scared me. I rocked my hips up to meet his hand and bit down on his shoulder, needing something to ground myself.
He pumped his fingers faster, then slowed down just to tease, taking me right to the edge and then backing off.
I let go of his cock long enough to grab his wrist, trying to force him to touch me where I needed him most, but he just chuckled and shook his head.
“Not like this,” he murmured. “I want to taste you first.”
I was about to argue when he slid down my body and settled between my thighs, pressing them open, wider, until I felt like I was split apart.
He didn’t rush, just stared at me, eyes dark with lust, and whispered, “You’re perfect.
” Then he kissed my inner thigh, dragged his tongue up the inside until he found my clit, and flicked it, gentle at first, then harder, then he covered my sex with his lips and sucked it into his mouth like he was starving.
I nearly came off the bed. I gasped and he moaned, a deep moan from his chest that vibrated through his tongue and lips making the sensation even better.
He buried his face between my legs, licking and sucking and devouring me, never breaking eye contact when I dared to look down.
He added his fingers back into the mix, thrusting them deep and curling them just so, and then I lost it.
My whole body seized up, every muscle locking tight as bliss shot from my core through every single limb as I called out his name.
I felt like I was falling, like I’d jumped off a cliff and there was no way to stop myself.
He didn’t let up, not even when I was shaking and twisting away, not until he’d wrung every last spasm from my body.
Once my entire body went limp, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawled up to lie beside me, gathering me into his arms.
He kissed my forehead, then my cheek, then my mouth, and I could taste myself on his lips. “You okay?” he asked, the concern dripping from the words as if he’d just saved me from drowning, not given me the best climax of my life.
I managed to nod, and as I lay there floating in post-orgasmic bliss, the only thing I could think of was that this was not enough, I wanted more. More time. More intimacy. More Dawson.