12. Heather #3
“There you are.” He says it like a prayer. Like a promise. “Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“Stay.” He shifts the angle, hitting something inside me that makes my back arch off the bed. “Stay.”
“I’m not - I’m not going any - oh God-”
He’s found something. Some spot inside me that Kirk never bothered to look for, and he’s hitting it on every stroke now, deliberate, devastating. The pressure is building, coiling tighter with each thrust, and I can feel myself starting to shake.
“That’s it.” His mouth finds my throat. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
“Grayson-” His name comes out broken. “I can’t - it’s too-”
“You can.” His hand slides between us, finding the place where I need him most, circling with exactly the right pressure. “You can, and you will, and I’m going to watch you fall apart.”
“I’ve never-” The words catch in my throat. “Not like this - I’ve never-”
“I know.” His voice drops to something raw, something broken. “I know you haven’t. Let me give you this.”
And then, partway through - his mouth at my throat, my body arched against his - I start crying.
Not from grief.
From relief.
From the sheer overwhelming sensation of being touched by someone who actually sees me. Who cares whether I feel good. Who’s been paying attention for six years to what I need.
He freezes, searching my face. “Are you-”
“Don’t stop.” I pull him back. “Don’t you dare stop.”
“But you’re crying-”
“Because it’s good.” I cup his face in my hands, forcing him to see the truth in my eyes. “Because it’s real. Because for the first time in ten years, someone is actually here with me instead of just next to me.”
Something breaks open in his expression. Something vulnerable and raw and exactly what I needed to see.
“I’m here,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He presses his forehead to mine, and his voice drops to something raw and broken:
“I’ve been waiting six years to touch you like this. Six years of watching you across rooms and telling myself I had no right. And now you’re here, and you’re real, and I-” His voice cracks. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you. Do you understand that? Nothing.”
The confession breaks something open in my chest.
“Then show me,” I whisper. “Show me what six years feels like.”
And then he’s moving again, harder now, deeper, and I’m crying and laughing and falling apart in the best possible way.
His hand between us never stops, driving me higher and higher, and when the orgasm finally crashes over me - his name on my lips, my whole body clenching around him - he follows seconds later with a groan that sounds like it was ripped from somewhere deep.
After, we lie tangled together in the hotel sheets.
The city glows through the window, indifferent to the fact that everything just changed. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, gradually slowing, matching mine.
“That was-” I can’t finish. Don’t have words.
“Yeah.” He presses his lips to my shoulder. “It was.”
We’re quiet for a moment. His hand traces lazy patterns on my hip, and I let myself feel safe in a way I haven’t in years. Maybe ever.
“No one’s ever-” I try again, but the words still won’t come.
He kisses my temple. “I know.”
“Kirk never - he was always so focused on himself. On what he wanted. I didn’t even know it could be-”
“I know.” He pulls me closer, his arm tight around my waist. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I thought something was wrong with me.” The confession slips out before I can stop it. “For years. I thought I was broken, because I never - I couldn’t-”
“You’re not broken.” His voice is fierce. “There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s something wrong with any man who makes you feel that way.”
***
I turn in his arms so I can see his face. His hair is a disaster. His eyes are soft in a way I’ve never seen.
“Grayson.” I rest my palm flat against his chest.
“Hmm?” He tightens his arm around my waist.
“What happens now?” I trace the edge of his jaw with one finger.
He’s quiet for a moment. His fingers keep drawing their absent patterns along my spine.
“Now we stop pretending.” He brushes a strand of hair off my cheek.
“And if it ruins everything?” I press closer into him.
He props himself up on one elbow to look at me properly.
“Heather. Everything was already ruined.” He runs a finger along my collarbone. “This is the part where we build something new.”
I search his face for doubt, for regret, for any sign he’s going to pull away. He holds still and lets me look.
“I’m scared.” I curl my fingers into the sheet between us.
“So am I.” He covers my hand with his.
“You don’t look scared.” I tilt my head against the pillow.
“I’m terrified.” He catches my hand and presses his lips to my palm. “But I’m more afraid of losing this than I am of getting hurt.”
“This?” I go still.
“You.” He meets my eyes and doesn’t look away. “I’m more afraid of losing you.”
The words land like a key turning in a lock.
I pull him down and kiss him, slow and deep.
“Then don’t lose me,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Never.” He gathers me in until there’s no space left between us.
We stay tangled together until dawn.
I don’t dream.