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“What is this place?” I ask, staring across Chicago as the sun dips, casting a warm glow. The city lights twinkle, painting a canvas of the city’s beauty.
“I call it the viewpoint,” he says, his voice distant, lost in memory. “I’m not from Chicago. I’m from Baltimore, but my brother and I used to come here sometimes. He found it in his college days.” I love that already. I’m catching glimpses of him.
“Let’s stay here for a couple of hours,” he says, leading me toward the back of his car. With a precise motion, he unlatches the trunk, revealing blankets and a picnic basket.
“You didn’t,” I tease, biting my lip to suppress a laugh.
“Is it cheesy?” His wince is cute as he rubs the back of his neck.
“Kinda, but cute,” I reply, walking closer to him. Standing face-to-face, I suddenly feel unsure—how do I act with him? Can I kiss him? His gaze locks onto my lips, and he leans in, brushing them with a tender kiss. I want to pout like a spoiled schoolgirl when he pulls away; I can’t get enough of him.
“After you.” he smirks, gesturing for me to climb onto the back of his truck. I laugh, throwing my head back, and jump up, settling down, overlooking the city. It’s breathtaking up here. Mr. Stiles joins me, moving with a swift accuracy that somehow makes him even more attractive.
He opens the picnic basket, and my eyes zero in on the candy. “Candy?” I ask, my grin threatening to burst out.
His lips twitch. “Something tells me you have a sweet tooth. You didn’t finish your shake the other day—that was my fault—so I thought I’d make it up to you.” The memory of him mentioning a date, and my stomach sinking, floods back. And in Mr. Stiles’s eyes, I see echoes of that moment, a shared vulnerability.
“Plus,” he says, as if unveiling a secret, “you have candy in almost every other Instagram photo.”
“So, you do watch me?” I grin, our eyes locking in a silent conversation that goes beyond words.
“All the time,” he confesses, his tone casual yet loaded with meaning. “I like watching you.” My heart stumbles, caught off guard by the simplicity of his words. He likes watching me. The thought sends a rush of warmth through my veins. His gaze shifts, tracing the city lights ahead.
“You create a weird calm in my chaos,” he continues, voice low. “To everyone else, you’re a quake—a force to be reckoned with. But to me, you’re my calm amid the storm.”
The butterflies in my stomach take flight, their wings brushing against my ribs. No one has ever made me feel this way—valued, wanted. Happiness blooms inside me like a secret garden I never knew existed. “I don’t like it when you don’t post,” he admits, shaking his head. “Everything gets too loud when I can’t see if you’re OK, what you’re doing.” His vulnerability hangs in the air, a fragile bridge between us.
“Sorry.” He chuckles, self-deprecating. “I definitely sound like a weirdo who’s lures you up into the mountains now.”
But I’m already falling, tumbling headlong into something I can’t name. “I like you watching me,” I confess, heat rising in my cheeks. I’ve always been the one who leaves guys flustered, but when did the tables turn?
“Some of my posts are for you,” I reveal, digging through the picnic basket. Sandwiches nestle in a container at the bottom. This—this is an actual picnic, and I’m giggling and squealing like a girl inside. No one has ever done anything so thoughtful for me.
“Was that the mirror one the other day?” Air gets lodged in my throat as I lift my gaze to meet his. His eyes, dark and intense, lock onto mine.
“What mirror one?” I tease, my lips curving into a knowing smile. I remember the photo, the one meant only for him. He pulls out his phone, revealing the screen and there I am, captured in that stolen moment. “You took a screenshot of it?” My shock is genuine; I hadn’t expected him to keep it. His gaze remains fixed on the image, hunger clear in his expression.
“How could I not?” His voice low and gravelly. “Look at you.” And suddenly the picnic, the candy, the sandwiches, all fade away. There’s only him and the magnetic pull between us. I lean in, my body moving on its own accord, and our lips collide.
He’s so fucking addicting. All I want to do is kiss him all day. I lean up, and he stretches his neck to keep his lips locked with mine as I swing my leg over and firmly sit in his lap. I can’t say I’ve ever sat on a man before, but it feels right. I ache to feel his skin against mine, to be so close that there’s no space left for air. My fingers trace the curves of his face, threading through his hair, pulling him impossibly nearer. Our lips hungry and desperate, as if we’ve been starved for each other. Our tongues dance, a wild rhythm of longing, and I lose myself in the taste of him—intoxicating, addictive. I grind myself down on Mr. Stiles’s already hard dick, and he moans into my mouth. Mr. Stiles pulls back as he constantly fucking does.
“We have to stop,” he grits out with his eyes closed, and his nostrils flared. He’s teetering on an edge, and I’m ready to push him off.
“Why?” I moan, grinding myself into him harder as I kiss down his jaw. I want to fit his swollen dick in my hands, in my mouth, in my . . . Shit. I’ve never bottomed in my life, so why all of a sudden do I get a feeling as if I will die if I don’t get fucked by Mr. Stiles?
“Bray.” Mr. Stiles grips my hips making it harder to move, and I stop kissing down his neck and meet his eyes. His hooded and hazy eyes stare back at me, but he winces.
“I’m not doing anything with you here. And if you keep grinding yourself on me the way you are, my tiny bit of resolve hanging on by a thread will snap.”
“I’ll cut it for you, no problem,” I rasp.
His laughter dances across my lips, a gentle kiss that leaves me breathless. His touch, a silent command, urges me to move. Awkwardly, I untangle myself and return to my seat. Shame swirls within me, threatening to consume me from the inside out. Mr. Stiles’s fingers find my jaw, lifting my gaze to meet his intense eyes.
“Look at me,” he demands, his tone sharp. I comply, but my eyes remain downcast, unable to meet his intensity. “Brayden,” he snaps, and my heart races. “I ache for you, my hands on your skin, your touch on me. It’s consumed my thoughts for weeks.” His confession hangs in the air, raw and desperate. “More than you’ll ever know.” His soft eyes hold mine, a silent promise.
“You mean more to me than fooling around in the back of my truck, exposed to the world. I already lost control in those locker rooms—it won’t happen again.” My pout betrays my frustration. “After group next Saturday, if you’re still interested, I’d like you to come over. I’ll cook us dinner.”
“Me come to yours?” I ask, taken aback. Mr. Stiles reclines to his original position.
