Chapter 11
Desmond Coyle?
I didn’t expect one diaper run to shift the ground beneath me.
Didn’t think a kiss in the middle of a Walmart aisle would burn itself into my memory like that, but here we are. And I’ll be honest—I’m not exactly complaining.
I’m grinning like a fool by the time we get to checkout.
Pay for everything without blinking. Toss the bags in the truck like they weigh nothing.
Brielle settles Leon into his car seat, soft and careful, murmuring to him like she always does.
Her voice does more than the ride itself—by the time we’re pulling into my lot, he’s already halfway to sleep, head slumped to the side, mouth slack.
We don’t say much on the way home.
I don’t need words when she’s right there, our hands brushing on the console, her pinky hooked around mine like it’s second nature now. Like we’re not new at this. Like it’s already been us for a while and the world just didn’t catch on yet.
When I kill the engine, Brielle climbs out first, easing Leon into her arms. She heads inside to put him down while I haul the groceries in behind her, arms full of plastic bags cutting into my fingers, heart pounding faster than it should.
I should be tired. Should be dreading the clean-up.
But all I can think about is getting it done fast.
Getting the bags on the counter.
Getting her back in front of me.
Getting her close again.
I dump everything down, barely sorting what’s cold and what’s not, and listen for her footsteps in the hall. The quiet click of the nursery door. The hush of her coming back through the apartment. Every second feels slower than the last.
And maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’s fast.
But I want her back in my arms like it’s oxygen.
I want to taste her again.
Feel the way she melts when I touch her like I might mean it.
She walks out of Leon’s room holding the baby monitor in one hand, moving soft and quiet like she doesn’t want to disturb the peace she just spent twenty minutes putting down for a nap.
Her cheeks are flushed, probably from the warmth in the nursery, maybe from that kiss still lingering between us.
Her dark hair’s a little messy, falling loose around her face.
And her eyes—those damn eyes—bright blue and a little unsure, meet mine.
The same eyes that made some old woman think she was Leon’s mama.
And I’d be lying if I said the thought didn’t do something to me.
She fidgets where she stands, bare toes curling slightly against the tile like she’s bracing for something. She gives me this shy, half-lidded smile that kills me a little.
“You want some help with the bags?” she asks, voice soft.
I take a slow step toward her. Then another.
“No,” I say low, stopping just in front of her. “I can handle it later.”
She blinks up at me, lips parting just slightly.
I take her free hand, slow and sure, and her fingers slide into mine like they were made to fit there.
“I want something else,” I murmur.
Her breath hitches. Her hand tightens in mine just a little.
I let go of it only to raise my knuckles to her jaw, brushing lightly along the curve of her cheek, the side of her neck—warm and flushed and soft as all hell.
“I’ve been thinking about kissing you again since the second we stopped,” I admit, voice rough.
Her throat moves in a swallow. Her eyes flick to my mouth.
I lean in, just close enough for her to feel the words. “You gonna let me?”
She nods once, breath catching.
But that’s not enough.
“Need to hear you say it,” I rasp. “I don’t make a move unless you want it.”
Her voice is barely there. “I want it.”
And that’s all I need.
I dip down and press my mouth to hers, slower than I did the first time. No aisles. No carts. No curious people in the way.
Just us.
And this kiss—this one’s deeper. Hungrier.
She melts into it like she’s been waiting, like her body knows mine now. Her hands slide up my chest, warm and sure, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt like she doesn’t want to let go.
And fuck—neither do I.
My hand finds her waist, the other still cradling her jaw like she’s made of something worth protecting. Not fragile. Just precious. Something I don’t want to break.
She sighs against my mouth—soft, breathy, perfectly sweet—and it goes straight through me, hot and deep.
I tug her in tighter, feel her body mold to mine, soft curves pressing flush against the hardness of my chest. And those tits—full and plush—settle against me in a way that makes my breath catch. Makes my control fray at the edges.
She slides her hands up, into my hair—fingers threading through, gentle at first, then tugging. Hard enough to make me groan into her mouth. That small sound—low, guttural, involuntary—pulls a shiver out of her.
So I take it deeper.
I tilt my head, angle her face, and devour her.
Tongue sliding against hers. Slow, filthy, sure.
She moans into the kiss, soft but desperate, like she’s tasting something she didn’t know she needed until now. Her grip tightens in my hair. She fists it, anchoring herself to me like she’s afraid the second we break apart, it’ll vanish.
Like I’ll vanish.
Not happening.
My hand slides lower, from her waist to the curve of her ass—round and firm under her jeans—and I grab it. Palming her, squeezing gently but rough enough to make her gasp into my mouth.
And then I press her to me.
Let her feel what she’s doing to me.
The thick, aching length of me, hard and straining behind my fly, flush against the heat between her thighs.
Her whole body shudders.
Her knees bend a little like her legs forgot what they’re supposed to do.
And her breath stutters—quick, shallow.
She feels it.
Every damn inch of how badly I want her.
And I can’t help myself.
I grab her tighter—one hand still wrapped around that perfect ass—and lift her. She makes this tiny sound in her throat, surprised but not stopping me, not even close. She weighs damn near nothing, light in my arms, like she was meant to be held like this.
Her legs wrap around my waist without hesitation, thighs snug at my sides, arms locked around my shoulders like I’m the only solid thing she’s got left to hold on to.
And then the kiss turns—
Messy.
So messy.
Lips crashing, teeth grazing, breath hot between us as we kiss like we’re starving. Like we’ve been circling this for days, weeks, years. Like if we stop now, we’ll never find the nerve to do it again.
She kisses me like she wants this. Not careful. Not shy. Just open, hungry, and real.
And fuck—how long has it been since a kiss felt like this? Since I had a woman wrapped around me, clutching me like she can’t get close enough? Since I felt needed in a way that wasn’t just about getting off, but about being wanted? Fully. Fiercely. No bullshit.
Her hips shift against me, just a little—just enough to make me feel the heat of her pressed up against the hard line of my cock. And I groan into her mouth, low and broken, because it’s been too damn long since someone touched me like this.
Since someone let me touch them like this.
My back hits the wall near the kitchen and I don’t even care. I’ve got one hand under her ass, keeping her steady, the other tangled in her hair, angling her mouth to deepen the kiss until it’s nothing but heat and tongue and need.
She whimpers softly—fuck, that sound—and it damn near undoes me.
She’s not holding back now. Not hiding behind polite or professional or scared.
She’s here.
Kissing me like she’s giving herself permission to feel good. Like she wants to burn the past out of her bones and replace it with this.
With me.
And I want to give her every second of it.
Right here, pressed to the wall of my shitty apartment, her legs locked tight around me, mouth on mine like she’s trying to memorize the shape of it, like we’re the only two people on the planet—hell, we might as well be.
But I need more than the wall.
So I shift her higher in my arms, get a better grip under her ass, and carry her toward the bedroom.
Her lips trail off my mouth, not in a no—just a surprise, her breathing fast and warm against my cheek.
She’s still got the damn baby monitor dangling from one hand, the other buried in my hair like she forgot how to let go.
We make it halfway down the hall before she mumbles into my neck, voice soft and breathless—
“I’m heavy.”
I snort, tightening my grip just to prove a point.
“Baby,” I mutter, my voice low and full of gravel, “I haul steel beams and busted engine blocks for a living. I carry welding rigs up three flights of scaffolding in the dead of summer. You think you’re heavy?”
She laughs—quiet and disbelieving—like she’s still not used to someone not flinching at her. Still not used to being wanted in a body that doesn’t ask for apologies.
“You feel like nothing in my arms,” I add, pushing the door to my room open with my shoulder. “Except maybe a reward.”
That gets her.
Her fingers curl tighter into my hair, and she leans in, presses a kiss under my jaw like she can’t help herself. I step into the bedroom, set her down with care—not because she’s fragile, but because I wanna take my time with her.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes wide and blue and a little glassy, like she’s not sure how this is happening but also not ready to let it stop.
The baby monitor’s still in her hand, blinking soft and steady. I reach over and set it on the nightstand like it’s not a dealbreaker, like this is just what life is sometimes—messy, beautiful, full of the unexpected.
“You’re not heavy,” I tell her again, quieter now, thumb brushing along her cheek. “You’re the easiest thing I’ve ever carried.”
And I mean it.
Not just her weight. Her.
The whole of her—grit and bruises and tired strength and soft laughter.
She’s not a burden.
She never was.
And I’ll carry her every damn time if she lets me.
I set her down like she’s something worth more than anything I’ve ever held—because fuck if she isn’t. The bed dips under her weight, and she looks up at me, all flushed cheeks and big eyes, that wanting written all over her face like a confession she doesn’t need to speak out loud.