Chapter 12
Megan
I expected heat. I expected want. I even expected a little growly dominance from the man who cooks like a cowboy and kisses like a threat.
What I didn’t expect was this.
This slow, deep, soul-stirring need.
Because the second Owen's lips press to mine, it’s not just lust.
It’s everything.
Fire and gravity. Moonlight and instinct.
Like this magnetic force that just flips something inside me I didn’t even know was waiting.
I gasp—and he takes it as an invitation.
Tongue sliding past my lips, he tastes me like I’m the best thing he’s ever had. Like he’s starving. Like he’s claiming me with his mouth before his hands even get the chance.
And I want it.
God, I want him.
My fingers fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, like I could somehow get under his skin if I just try hard enough. His hands grip my hips, dragging me flush against him, and I feel all of him—hard, huge, and fully, irrevocably interested.
A moan escapes me. I don’t even try to hold it back.
Because this kiss?
It isn’t soft anymore.
It’s not tentative or testing the waters.
It’s wildfire—scorching and sudden and out of control.
It’s the kind of kiss that redefines gravity.
It’s me pouring every buried ache, every unmet need, every lie I ever told myself about being fine into the only mouth that’s ever made me forget who I was supposed to be.
And he takes it.
All of it.
Owen kisses like a man on the edge. Like he’s just as desperate. Just as wrecked.
He makes a sound—low, rough, possessive—and it shoots through me like a live wire. My panties? Ruined. My pulse? Not even close to legal limits.
I want more. So much more I ache with it.
“Owen,” I breathe against his jaw, his cheek, his mouth.
His voice rumbles, deep and hungry. “What do you need?”
“Less clothes,” I whisper, kissing down his neck, already working the snaps of his shirt like a woman possessed.
And I am.
Possessed.
By the smell of him. The heat of him. The impossible reality of this—whatever this is.
“Anything you want,” he growls.
Then rip, the rest of the snaps give with a tug that sends goosebumps across my skin. And there he is—bare chest, broad shoulders, carved muscle and just enough dark hair to make my fingers twitch.
“Fuck,” I murmur, my hands sliding beneath the fabric to push it off him. His skin is hot and firm and addictive.
He groans—actually groans—when I drag my nails lightly down his back.
And then it’s my turn.
He tugs at the hem of my shirt, watching me like I’m the answer to every question he never dared ask. When the fabric peels up and over my head, his eyes darken.
He sees my plain white cotton bra. Nothing fancy. Nothing frilly. And he still looks at me like I’m a feast.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he says, voice rough like gravel and reverence all at once.
And he means it.
That sincerity hits me harder than any line ever could. It’s not performative. It’s not to get me naked.
It’s truth. Simple and unshakable.
I swallow, breath catching.
“Pants,” I rasp, going for his belt buckle like I’m the one in charge.
I am so not.
My fingers work fast, but his are faster. He undoes the belt, the button, the zipper, and drops his jeans to reveal black boxer briefs that are doing their best but failing spectacularly to contain him.
And oh holy hell, the head of his cock is already peeking above the waistband. I stop breathing.
There is an actual, physical war happening inside me. Part of me wants to drop to my knees and taste him. Devour him. Worship him like the fucking religion I just found.
But like he knows what I’m thinking he shakes his head.
“Later,” he growls, his voice pure sex and command. “Your turn now.”
He grips me by the waistband of my jeans and drags me forward. I gasp, nearly losing my balance as he sinks to his knees.
My jeans come off with his big hands working fast, reverent but impatient. Then he peels off my underwear like a man unwrapping a gift he’s been dreaming about for years.
Our clothes end up scattered in a messy trail—like we’re not just stripping off layers, we’re shedding something deeper.
Fear. Hesitation. Control.
He stands, eyes blazing gold, and cups the back of my neck with one hand while the other settles on my waist, dragging me in for a kiss so deep, so all-consuming, I forget my own damn name.
I break it only to pant against his mouth, “It’s too soon.”
And he stills.
Barely.
Like a predator in the brush, sensing a shift. His body stays pressed to mine, heat and muscle and sheer male intensity, but I can feel the way he reins himself in. His lips hover near mine, breath hot.
“You want to stop?” he asks, voice rough but steady.
And there’s no pressure in it. No guilt. Just a quiet strength holding the space open for my answer.
My heart stutters.
I should say yes.
I should slow this down.
But my body, my heart, my soul? They already know him.
So maybe it’s not too soon.
Maybe it’s just right.
Maybe fate doesn’t work on clocks and calendars. Maybe it works on pull.
And this man?
He pulls me like gravity.
Hard.
Fast.
Forever.
Golden eyes darkened with restraint. Lips kiss-swollen. Chest heaving.
“Want me to stop?” he asks again, his voice hoarse but steady.
My heart punches my ribs. My body screams no.
And I whisper, fierce and breathless, “You better not.”
That’s all it takes.
The tension snaps.
His mouth crushes mine, desperate now, wild. His hands are everywhere—cupping my breasts, sliding down my waist, gripping my ass like he’s dreamed of it. And maybe he has.
Because I know I have.
We knock over a chair. Manage to pull the calendar from the fridge. But it’s all breathless laughs and curses, pants and moans echoing off the walls.
And when he lifts me up, carrying me to his bedroom like I weigh nothing, I don’t feel nervous or ashamed.
I feel wanted.
Like I belong to him.
Like I always have.
And maybe I do.
Maybe this insane, all-consuming, fated pull between us isn’t something to fear.
Maybe it’s just the truth.
And tonight? I’m done running from it.
Because I’m not just giving in to the desire.
I’m claiming it too.