Chapter 5 #2
God, he's gorgeous. All lean muscle and smooth skin, his chest rising and falling with each breath. I run my hands over him, memorizing the feel of him, the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the way he shudders under my touch. “Fuuuuck, Hannah.”
"I want you."
"I want you too. So much." He stands just long enough to shed his jeans, and then he's back, settling between my legs again. I can feel him, hard and hot against me through the thin fabric of my panties, and I gasp.
"Okay?" he asks, his voice strained.
"More than okay."
He hooks his fingers in my panties, sliding them down slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he pauses, his breathing heavy.
"I'm clean," I say softly, meeting his gaze. "And I'm on birth control."
His whole body goes still. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He kisses me then, deep and slow, his hands framing my face. When he pulls back, he's already positioning himself, his eyes locked on mine as he pushes inside, slow and careful, filling me completely. There's no barrier between us now, nothing but skin and heat and the overwhelming intimacy of it.
"God, Hannah," he breathes. "You feel incredible."
"So do you."
He starts to move, his thrusts deliberate and controlled, each one a promise. Like he's memorizing every sound I make, every way my body responds to his. But I can feel the tension in him, the way he's holding back, and I don't want that.
"Bennett," I whisper. "Let go."
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't. I promise. I want all of you."
He groans, and then he's moving faster, harder, his control slipping.
I meet him thrust for thrust, my nails digging into his back, and the pleasure builds, sharp and overwhelming.
It's more than physical. It's the way he looks at me, like I'm the only thing that matters.
The way he touches me, like I'm precious.
The way he's claimed me completely, and I've claimed him right back.
"God, Hannah?—"
"Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He doesn't. He keeps moving, his hands gripping my hips, his mouth on my neck, and I feel myself climbing higher, closer, until I'm right on the edge.
"Bennett—I'm?—"
"I know. I've got you. Let go for me."
He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and that's all it takes. I come with a cry, my body clenching around him, pleasure crashing through me in waves. He follows a moment later, his whole body shuddering as he spills into me, my name on his lips.
We stay like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, our bodies tangled together. His weight is comforting, grounding. I run my fingers through his hair, and he turns his head to press a kiss to my palm.
"You okay?" he asks.
"I'm perfect."
"Good." His hand strokes up and down my back, slow and soothing. "That was..."
"Yeah."
"I didn't hurt you?"
"No. You were perfect."
He's quiet for a moment, and then he says, "Ever since that day at the coffee shop, I haven't been able to stop thinking about you."
I laugh, tilting my head to look up at him. "Really?"
"Really. I kept imagining what it would be like. What you'd feel like. What sounds you'd make." His hand cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. "Reality is so much better."
My chest tightens with something I'm not ready to name. "Bennett?—"
"Stay tonight," he says. "Please."
I look up at him. "I was planning on it."
He smiles, and it's the softest, most genuine smile I've ever seen from him. "Good."
We lie there in comfortable silence, and I listen to the steady beat of his heart. The house is quiet around us, warm and safe, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Eventually he shifts, pressing another kiss to my forehead. "Come on. Let's get you to bed."
"We're not already in bed?"
"My bed. Where I can hold you properly."
He stands, pulling me up with him, and I follow him through the house. His bedroom is just as immaculate as the rest of the house—a massive bed with crisp white sheets, more windows overlooking the trees, simple furniture that somehow feels warm despite its minimalism.
He pulls back the covers and I slide in, the sheets cool and soft against my skin. He climbs in beside me, immediately pulling me into his arms, wrapping himself around me like he can't bear to have any space between us.
"Comfortable?" he asks.
"Very."
His hand strokes through my hair, gentle and rhythmic. "I'm glad you're here."
"Me too."
I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of him—clean and masculine and somehow already familiar. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. His arms are solid and warm around me.
This.
This feels like home.
Not the house, though it's beautiful. Not the expensive furniture or the perfect kitchen or the immaculate bedroom.
Him.
Being here with him, wrapped in his arms, feeling safe and wanted and seen.
This is home.
And as I drift toward sleep, I realize something that should terrify me but doesn't.
I don't want to leave.
Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.
"Hannah?" His voice is soft, already drowsy.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being here. For trusting me." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "For being you."
My throat tightens. "Thank you for seeing me."
"Always," he murmurs. "I'll always see you."
And wrapped in his arms, in his bed, in his home, I finally let myself believe it might be true.