He kisses me first, or I kiss him—the distinction dissolves in the collision, weeks of tension finally finding release in the pressure of his mouth against mine.
His lips are hot and demanding, his hands moving to my waist to pull me flush against him, and I meet him with equal ferocity.
My fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring myself in the sensation, in the reality of him here, in my room, refusing to leave.
His mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath my ear. I gasp, tilting my head back to give him access, and feel him smile against my throat.
"I'm sorry," I breathe, the apology tumbling out before I can stop it. "For what I said about you not being part of the plan."
He doesn't answer with words. His hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair at the nape of my neck. He grips, pulls, and the sharp tug sends heat flooding through my body, pooling low in my belly.
"Are you?" His voice is a murmur against my collarbone, his free hand slipping beneath my shirt to find bare skin. "Sorry enough to admit you were wrong?"
"Yes." The word comes out strangled as his teeth sink into the curve where my neck meets my shoulder—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough that I will see a mark tomorrow and remember this exact moment.
"Sorry enough to stop running?" His tongue soothes where his teeth just bit me, and my knees nearly buckle. His grip in my hair tightens, keeps me upright, keeps me exactly where he wants me.
"Yes." I am barely breathing now, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as his control threatens to undo me completely.
He pulls my head back further, exposing my throat, and drags his lips up the column of my neck with agonizing slowness. His breath is hot against my skin, his other hand tracing fire along my ribs beneath my shirt.
"Sorry enough to stay?"
I cannot think. Cannot form sentences when his mouth is doing this to me, when his hand in my hair keeps me pinned and wanting. His teeth catch my earlobe, tug gently, and I whimper—an embarrassing, desperate sound I couldn't stop if I tried.
"Answer me, Skye." His voice drops lower, rough with something that sounds like need held barely in check. His lips brush the shell of my ear, and I shiver against him. "Or I stop."
"Yes," I gasp, the word torn from somewhere deep in my chest. "Yes, I'm sorry. Yes, I'll stay. Just don't—don't stop."
He rewards me with his mouth on mine again, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my hips rock forward involuntarily.
His hand releases my hair only to grip my waist, pulling me tighter against the hard length of him, and I moan into his mouth.
We stumble toward the bed without separating, our bodies moving in clumsy synchronization.
My hip catches the edge of my desk, sending papers scattering across the floor—unmarked essays, lesson plans, the careful documentation of a life I'm losing control of.
I do not care about the mess. I cannot care about anything except the heat of his chest against mine, the way his breath comes ragged against my throat.
He lifts me onto the mattress with hands that shake slightly—anger or need, I cannot tell—and follows me down.
His weight settles between my legs with a pressure that feels like completion, like the final piece of a puzzle I did not know I was solving.
I arch against him, feeling him hard through his jeans, and make a sound that would embarrass me if I had any shame left. The noise escapes without permission, raw and wanting.
"Wait." He catches my wrists before I can reach for his shirt, pinning them above my head, his body pressing mine into the mattress with deliberate restraint.
The position arches my back, exposes my throat, makes me feel held and helpless and desperate for more.
"You apologized," he murmurs, his mouth hovering just above mine, close enough that I feel his breath but not his lips. "You said you'd stay."
I strain upward, chasing his mouth, but he pulls back just enough to deny me.
"Words are easy, Skye." His knee presses between my thighs, spreading them wider, and I gasp at the pressure exactly where I need it. "You've given me words before. Pretty ones, cruel ones, lies dressed up as truth."
"I meant it." My voice comes out ragged, my hips rocking against his thigh without my permission. "I meant all of it."
"Did you?" His teeth find my earlobe, bite just hard enough to sting. "Or are you just saying what you think I want to hear because my hand is in your hair and you're wet enough that I can feel it through your clothes?"
Heat floods my face—shame and arousal tangled so tightly I cannot separate them. He is right. He can feel it. And the knowledge that he knows exactly what he does to me only makes it worse.
"Which version of you am I fucking right now?" His lips brush my jaw, my throat, the hollow beneath my ear. "The one who wants to leave, or the one who moved her furniture?"
I strain against his hold, not to escape but to test his grip. To feel the strength there, the certainty. To understand that he will not let go unless I truly want him to.
"Make me one person, Kai," I whisper, the confession scraping from somewhere deep in my chest.
I wrap my legs around him, pull him closer, challenge him with my body when my words fail me.
His exhale shudders against my throat. His hands release my wrists and move beneath my shirt instead, finding skin. His palms trace my ribs like he is counting them, memorizing my architecture by touch alone.
"I've been thinking about this," he murmurs, pushing the fabric higher, exposing more of me to the cool air and his burning gaze. "Since the couch. Since you fell asleep on my chest and I couldn't move for hours because I didn't want to wake you."
"You should have woken me." I gasp as his thumb finds my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra. "I would have—"
"Would have what?" He circles slowly, maddeningly, watching my face with dark satisfaction. "Run? Pretended it meant nothing? Told me it was a mistake?"
I cannot argue. He is right, and we both know it.
"I hated hearing that car pull up." He cups my breast, his touch gentler now, reverent in a way that makes my chest ache. "Hated scrambling for clothes in the dark like teenagers caught doing something wrong. Hated that we didn't finish what we started."
"We finished." My voice comes out breathless as his mouth trails down my throat. "I remember finishing quite clearly."
"That was a preview." His teeth graze my collarbone, and I shiver beneath him.
He lowers his head to kiss me again, swallowing my moan as I rock against him. The groan that rumbles through his chest travels into mine, down my spine, settling low and urgent.
"I've thought about nothing else," I admit against his lips, finally giving him the honesty he demanded. "Every night since then. I hate how much I've thought about you."
"Good." His hand slides lower, fingers tracing the waistband of my skirt. "I want to be the only thing in your head."
We undress each other in fragments—my shirt pulled over my head, his jeans shoved down his hips, the awkward choreography of urgency making us both clumsy, both desperate.
I fumble with his buttons while he unhooks my bra, and we laugh breathlessly at our own gracelessness.
"Smooth," I manage, as my skirt tangles around my ankles.
"Shut up." But he is smiling, and the smile transforms his face into something younger, less guarded. "I'm working under pressure here."
Then the laughter fades. He stops to look at me, fully bare beneath him, and the expression on his face—wonder, hunger, tenderness that frightens me—makes me want to hide and want to be seen, simultaneously.
His gaze travels down my body slowly, deliberately, cataloguing every detail like he's committing me to memory. When his eyes settle on my breasts, his breath catches audibly.
"These," he says, his thumb brushing across one nipple, then the other, watching them tighten under his touch. "I've been dreaming about these. Pink and perfect and so fucking responsive."
He lowers his head, his breath hot against my skin, and takes one into his mouth. The sensation shoots through me like lightning, my back arching off the mattress, a moan escaping before I can catch it.
"Why are you still dressed?" I manage, my fingers gripping his hair.
He laughs again, surprised out of his reverence, and remedies the situation with clumsy haste. Then he is naked against me, skin to skin, heat to heat, and the sensation overwhelms my capacity for thought.
His chest presses against my breasts, his thigh slides between mine, his hand finds me wet and ready. I gasp at the contact, my hips jerking involuntarily toward his touch.
"Kai—"
"I've got you." He strokes me slowly, watching my face with fierce attention, cataloguing every response. "Let go. I've got you."
I come apart under his hand with a cry I do not try to muffle, my nails scoring his shoulders deep enough to leave marks he will carry tomorrow.
He watches me throughout, his jaw tight with restraint, his breath coming harsh and uneven. When I finally still—trembling, gasping, tears pricking my eyes from the intensity—he kisses me with gratitude that tastes like relief.
He is the first to make me scream at last.
"Again," he murmurs against my mouth, and the word vibrates through me like a promise. "I want to feel that again. Around me this time."
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