Page 130 of Only Be Mine

I lifted my face to his, kissing him. Soft at first, almost tentative. He responded immediately, his hand sliding to my waist, pulling me closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I deepened the kiss.

Not because he asked.

Because I wanted to.

The world narrowed to the warmth between us, the familiar pull of shared breath and shared space. I shifted onto his lap, knees sinking into the couch cushions, his hands finding their way to my back, my hips. There was no rush, no hunger edged with anger, just closeness. Heat. Relief.

I pressed my forehead to his and laughed quietly, the sound surprising even me. “This is reckless,” I murmured.

He smiled against my mouth. “You always did like reckless.”

The words struck something tender and raw. Instead of pulling away, I leaned in, kissing him again, slower this time. Deeper. I reached for the buttons of his shirt, fingers fumbling just slightly as I worked them free, wanting to feel more of him, wanting to do something with my hands.

I barely got the second one undone before his grip changed.

His fingers closed around my wrists, firm but not rough, lifting my hands above my head with an ease that made my breath catch. He held them there with one hand while the other slid beneath the hem of my top. He lifted my shirt over my head in one smooth motion, barely breaking the kiss, and I let my arms go slack as it slipped free. His mouth followed immediately - my neck, my collarbone - lingering there like he was taking his time, like he had nowhere else to be.

I tilted my head back, giving him more without thinking.

His lips traced lower, unhurried, and I felt the tug of lace as he caught the edge of my bra between his teeth, pulling it aside just enough to make me gasp. He didn’t rush it. He didn’t need to. One hand came up, fingers deft and practiced as the clasp released, and then it was gone, discarded somewhere behind the couch without ceremony.

I rocked against him, needing the contact, the friction, the reassurance that this was real. His mouth followed the movement, attentive and careful, like he was listening to my body more than my breath.

Then his hand slid lower.

I felt the shift as he unbuckled his belt, the soft sound of it giving way beneath his fingers. He popped the button of his slacks, lowered the zipper, lifting his hips just enough to free himself.

I stood without being asked, pushing my shorts and panties down my legs and stepping out of them, the cool air brushing over my skin. My hands trembled as I moved back toward him, but he was already reaching for me, settling me over him with quiet intention.

The moment I sank down, my head tipped back, a sharp breath leaving me as thought gave way to sensation. There was nothing in my mind now - only heat, closeness, the way my body responded without permission.

His hands came to my hips, guiding me. Not stopping me, but directing me. Slowing me when I moved too fast, pulling me closer when I tried to pull away. Even when I was on top, even when it felt like I was choosing the rhythm, it was his hands that decided.

His mouth traced familiar paths, grounding, possessive in its patience.

When I shifted again, chasing more, he moved without hesitation - lifting, turning us with an ease that stole my breath. I found myself pressed gently into the couch cushions, his weight settling over me, steady and sure.

He set the pace then, deliberate at first, building gradually. Every time my nails dug into his shoulders, every time I arched beneath him, his movements sharpened, like the reaction fueled him instead of slowed him.

I clung to him, breathless, letting him take me where he wanted to go.

Later, when the world finally came back into focus, we lay tangled together beneath the blanket. His hand moved in slow, absent lines along my spine, grounding me again.

“I love you,” he said softly, like there was no doubt left in it.

I closed my eyes and let myself believe it.

“I love you too.”

Chapter 47

John

May 10 - Ten Years Ago

Rain soaked through my jacket in minutes, the kind that didn’t bother pretending it would stop anytime soon. I stepped off the curb and onto the street anyway, head down, hands jammed into my pockets, trying to outrun a conversation I knew was waiting for me at home.